Turning Point: A TIE Fighter Story
by ImperialGirl
Summary: Originally, this was the prologue to the third story in the TIE Fighter series (following TIE Fighter: Command Decision.) But it got out of hand. Set during and immediately after the events of The Last Command, Grand Admiral Thrawn's campaign approaches its conclusion, and the Noghri are planning their revenge. Thelea's presence, though, changes galactic history. Legends AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Turning Point**

 **A TIE Fighter: Resurrection Prologue**

 **Six Years After Endor, Imperial Fleet Staging Near Bilbringi**

(In other words, the later chapters of _The Last Command_ )

"Bridge to Captain Pellaeon?"

The voice on the comm interrupted both Pellaeon's train of thought and what he had been saying to the Grand Admiral. He flinched, both at the voice and at the narrowing of glowing red eyes. "Lieutenant Tschel, I am in conference with Admiral Thrawn," he said. "Unless this has to do with the shipyards–"

"I'm sorry, Captain, but we have a ship coming in, requesting immediate docking, and the security code it's transmitting is . . . sir, they have a priority-one override and the pilot's demanding to come aboard. But . . . Captain, it's an A-wing."

Pellaeon froze. "An Alliance fighter?" Could Jade have given the Rebellion codes now that the former Emperor's Hand was apparently working with them, or at least trying to keep herself out of a detention cell? "Go to red alert-"

"Belay that." By now, he ought to be used to Thrawn overriding him, but rank or no rank it still made him feel like a reprimanded cadet. "What markings does the fighter have?"

There was a pause, in which Pellaeon's brow furrowed and he frowned. "You don't think it's a Rebel scout?"

"Almost certainly not, Captain," and there was a tone in the Admiral's voice that Pellaeon could not identify for a moment, and when he did, he was certain he was wrong. Because he had never yet heard Thrawn sound _weary_. "Lieutenant?"

"No markings, sir." Tschel sounded as surprised as Pellaeon felt. "At least, no known Rebellion paint schemes. Dark gray, sir, possibly black."

"Put the pilot's audio through to me, Lieutenant." Thrawn had been beside Pellaeon, watching the tactical readout, but now he went to his command chair and sat, looking more resigned than anything else.

There was a pause, and then–" _Chimaera,_ I can override your docking control if I have to," a distinctly female voice that Pellaeon didn't recognize was saying, "but I have transmitted recognition codes that suggest you should be more cooperative if you don't want–"

Thrawn cut her off, but Pellaeon had no idea what he said. The language the Grand Admiral was speaking was fluid, mellifluous, with a rhythm decidedly unlike Galactic Basic. The pilot of the A-wing fell silent instantly, and one thing that did seem to carry across languages was tone-there was no mistaking the exasperation in Thrawn's voice.

The pilot responded in kind, and her voice was abruptly conciliatory, but there was still a distinct sense of urgency to it. Her words were even harder to follow as she spoke rapidly, but Pellaeon watched the Admiral's face as he listened, and what he saw was even more surprising than the idea of Thrawn being weary. Thrawn looked . . . puzzled. And concerned. And then Pellaeon heard one word in the strange lilting alien dialect that stuck out like Huttese amidst Basic. Obviously whatever language they were speaking had no word for _ysalamiri._

"Very well," and Thrawn sounded a bit more himself as he switched back to Basic. "Come directly to my command room once you're aboard. There will be time, briefly, before we jump for you to explain yourself. But I cannot delay this assault based on your intuitions."

"You don't have to," and there was no mistaking the pilot's abject relief. "I only need–"

"Once you're aboard," Thrawn cut her off again. "Lieutenant?"

"Yes, sir." If Tschel had been listening, he was likely as confused as Pellaeon, but even less likely to question matters.

"Inform docking control the A-wing is to be allowed to board immediately. The pilot is to proceed to my command room without interference. She has the appropriate command cylinders to pass through the ship without escort." Pellaeon started, but if Thrawn noticed his surprise he ignored it.

"Aye, sir." The comm clicked off, and Pellaeon turned to the Admiral, who was staring into the middle distance with his usual pensive expression, and yet . . . .

"Admiral?" It seemed almost rude to interrupt his train of thought. "This pilot is–"

"An agent, acting on my behalf." Thrawn sounded distant, distracted, not as if he was thinking about the pilot or, more critically in Pellaeon's mind, how this might affect the timing of the Bilbringi operation. "Nothing to immediately concern you, or cause us to delay, I'm sure."

"If you say so, sir," Pellaeon said. "But you said she has a command cylinder for the _Chimaera-_ does that cylinder allow access to secure areas?"

"She has a command cylinder that will grant access to secure areas on any ship in the fleet, Captain," Thrawn said, and he seemed at least to be coming out of whatever fugue he had been in. "The Emperor was not the only one who needed agents with the freedom to come and go where he required them. You simply have not had occasion to meet any of mine." He frowned. "I hadn't planned on it being now, either."

Pellaeon nodded, though he wasn't sure he understood. "Will you be requiring my presence here during your meeting, sir?"

The glowing eyes blinked and Thrawn shook his head. "No, that will be all, Captain. See to our final preparations and I'll join you on the bridge shortly." He must have seen the thought reflected in Pellaeon's expression, because he added, "Don't be concerned, Captain. I'm in no danger from this visitor." He tapped a control on the arm of the command chair and the holographic art gallery flickered to life around them. Most of these seemed, to Pellaeon's increasingly-trained eye, to be human-made, flat panels and three-dimensional sculptures all made from some dark wood veined with greenish-blue. Thrawn did not elaborate, though, so he didn't ask. Passing back out through the antechamber, Pellaeon glanced into the corner, for once somewhat reassured by the presence of Rukh in the shadowy alcove.

Thelea had been aboard _Chimaera_ before, but even if she hadn't one Imperial-class Destroyer was essentially the same as another. As a rule, she would have used the Force to locate her father's command room by searching out his presence, but here, his ridiculous new pets meant there were gaps in her perception, odd blind spots that stuck out and distracted her as she scanned for threats. There had been no indication his clone Jedi was aboard, which was both a good sign that he was not the source of the disturbance, and a relief that she would not have to confront the false C'baoth now, alone, without Master Aleishia's backup. The ysalamiri's presence, though, was a reminder of that future confrontation's inevitability in addition to hindering her ability to find her away around the ship.

 _Stop it,_ she admonished herself. _You survived your entire life without relying on the Force. Six years learning to use it doesn't negate all your other senses. Least of all finding your way around a Star Destroyer!_

But the Force was instrumental in her reason for being here and trying to explain that decision to her father would be difficult enough without the distracting presence of the Force-repelling little creatures he'd brought in for his grand plan. Not that she could show him the vision–even trying to show Master Aleishia had failed, been a jumbled, shadowy mess, but she had been in a hurry. And terrified.

The dream-vision had woken her for the third night in a row since they'd returned to the fortress on Nirauan from the latest foray into the depths of what Core-worlders called the Unknown Regions. She couldn't, even now, clearly recall any one image beyond a Star Destroyer's bridge. The rest was a blur of dark gray and teeth, stunning pain, anger, a flash of silver, and the impression that had finally driven her here–a bloom of heart's-blood red against snow-white, and along with it the deep, immovable certainty that her father's life was in danger. It was to Vice Admiral Parck's credit he had not questioned her in any detail, simply accepted her word that Thrawn's life was at risk and she had to find him, and he'd provided her with _Chimaera'_ s coordinates. The hyperspace jump in her A-wing had been long enough she'd tried to meditate, but again all the Force showed her was the spreading crimson against the white cloth and by the time she'd come out of lightspeed, arguing with _Chimaera'_ s docking control had worn through what little self-control she had left.

The door to the antechamber slid open and she didn't even bother looking into the shadows. "Stay out of my way."

There was a hiss from somewhere behind her. Here, the Force was not blocked, and she sensed the Noghri's position behind and to her left. The command cylinder did _not_ work on the inner door, meaning her options were wait until her father decided to admit her, retreat to the corridor, or see what Rukh had in mind. Her father had chided her for her very Chiss-like distaste for the Noghri in general and his bodyguard in particular, and she was willing to concede they had their uses, but a race primitive enough to be manipulated so easily by one faction could be easily manipulated by another. Not only were some of her race's traits, like disdain for primitives, a little more deeply ingrained than she liked, her father had not seen first-hand what the primitives had done on Endor. Thelea had.

"You are armed," the gravelly mewl said from the shadowed alcove. "And armored. I would not be serving our lord the Grand Admiral if I did not detain you." She saw the glint of silver metal moving from hand to hand.

"You know who I am," she said. "And you are correct, I'm armed." She took the lightsaber from its discreet position on the shadow scout armor's utility belt and ignited it. The crimson blade that made Aleishia so uneasy glowed in the darkness, casting a dull wash of red onto the gray-skinned creature watching her. "I'd be failing in _my_ duty if I weren't."

Rukh hissed, but she knew he would not advance on her. Even in the kind of close quarters that were designed for his sort of combat, against a Force-user wielding a lightsaber it would be suicidal. In any case, helmet on or not, Rukh knew exactly who she was. This was about territory. "Very well, daughter of our lord," he said, and the knife vanished. "You may proceed."

"As if you have any say about that," she muttered, but she deactivated her lightsaber and turned to the inner door. Either Rukh did have a control switch, or (more likely) her father had been listening to the entire exchange, because the inner door opened and she stepped through without even glancing at the Noghri. Her back still felt painfully exposed, though, until the door slid shut again behind her.

As seemed to be usual for him, her father was seated in his command chair, surrounded by the rings of holographic artwork. She registered absently that these were all human works, and all from the same material, before exactly what the material was sank in. Behind the mask, she flinched, but forced the expression from her face and the sudden tension from her body.

If her father noticed the response, he gave no indication, but then, she had to assume of course he noticed. That was the entire point. "In a matter of minutes," he said without preamble, "this ship and the rest of her battle group will be jumping into a fight."

"I'm aware of that, Father." Familial title, rather than rank, would inform him as well as anything that this was not a military matter on her part.

"Then I assume you have an excellent reason for your abrupt appearance." His expression didn't give her any hint of his mood–annoyed, angry, or concerned at this out-of-character interruption.

She pulled off her helmet. It seemed important to look him directly in the eyes. "Yes, Father. Your life is in danger."

One shoulder twitched in a shrug. "A soldier's life is always in danger."

"Immediate and personal danger." She eyed the nutrient frame on the back of the chair, forcing herself not to loathe the placid, sessile creature clinging to it. All life, Master Aleishia insisted, was part of the Force, and that meant even ysalamiri. Thelea agreed in principle, but as the ysalamiri went so far in rejecting the Force, it seemed like they'd forfeited any consideration based on that factor. "If I'm not here, you'll die."

It said a great deal about her father's philosophy of leadership that he did not immediately dismiss her perhaps-overdramatic statement out of hand. "What brings you to that conclusion?"

This was the part he was not likely to give much credence too. "A Force vision. I've had it three nights running, and again trying to meditate on my way here. I see a bridge of a Star Destroyer, a blade, and blood on a white uniform. I sense death and defeat and in the vision I know I'm far away and there's nothing I can do about it, I just see it over and over. The Force wouldn't show me this if I weren't supposed to try and stop it."

She waited, and wished either she were better at reading expressions, or he weren't so good at keeping his thoughts from showing. Or that the damned furry snake blocking her other senses would obligingly drop dead. "You've turned into more of a mystic than your mother ever was," he said, thoughtfully, though not disapprovingly. "She didn't put much credence in Force visions and destinies." He cocked an eyebrow. "Except when you were born. But I wrote that off to a mother's indulgence."

"Well, I don't have a lot of patience for them, either, so if it gets this one to stop, you're just going to have to put up with two bodyguards until the Force stops waking me up every night in a panic." She eyed the nutrient frame again and grimaced. "This would be easier without your new pets, while we're on the subject."

His expression darkened. "For the moment, they are a necessity. If your Master had been more amenable to assisting in this campaign–"

Thelea sniffed and that was to keep from laughing, which _would_ have earned her some sort of reprimand. "She said it herself–you wouldn't be very happy if she decided she liked having that sort of power. Controlling an unstable clone is one thing. Facing down a full-fledged, sane Dark Jedi? You couldn't stop her and neither could I. Where is your mad clone, anyway? I was half-certain the vision was about him."

"Safely away and contained for now, waiting for the Jedi he's certain will come and kneel before him." Thrawn's lip twisted. "Either Skywalker will deal with him, or they will be in a position to be disposed of easily once the campaign situation is stable."

"You've decided he has to be dealt with already? What about the . . . coordination? I still can't help you there." Not that she liked the plan, though if her own talents had run in that direction she would have accepted the task, Aleishia's objections on principle notwithstanding. The memory of Palpatine's grasping Force presence among the Fleet at Endor were still fresh after six years, though. "I would have thought, as the campaign moves closer to the Core–"

"There have been . . . complications. Enough that C'baoth will need to be replaced sooner rather than later, and I believe allowing you to hone your combat skills against him is simply too dangerous. A more prosaic removal will be necessary." By which, she knew, he meant assassins by preference, orbital bombardment if necessary.

"And then a new clone replacement?" She didn't bother hiding her distaste.

"Ideally a more stable one, grown under our newly controlled conditions," he said, deliberately ignoring her disapproval. "You could perhaps have a role in the new clone's training."

"I'll think about it." Rather, about ways to say no that her father couldn't object to. "For now, though, my only concern is your safety."

"I find it hard to imagine how I could be in danger in my quarters, in here, or on the bridge of the _Chimaera,_ the only places I am likely to be in the immediate future," he said, "but, if it will put your mind at peace on the matter–"

"It will." She fought to keep the relief from being too obvious. A good thing he wasn't Force-sensitive and even if he were had that ysalamiri over his shoulder, or it would have been blindingly obvious. "If for nothing else, for mother's sake. If I let something happen to you then no matter where she's gone, she'd find a way back and she'd haunt me."

"Would that she'd had such concern about her own safety." Thelea wondered what her father's officers would think if they saw the expression on his face now. Not that he'd ever allow himself to appear pained, let alone wistful, in front of juniors, and they were all junior officers now. Would they even notice? Human expressions were so broad and obvious, they sometimes seemed to miss subtleties completely. "Has she . . . spoken to you, since that day?"

Now she almost wished she hadn't brought it up. "No. Not even when I meditate. She must have really meant it when she said was using up a lot of energy to appear bodily and she can't manage it any more."

Not even in front of his daughter would he have shown real grief, and she saw the effort to contain it. "Ah, well. Strange as it was, it was . . . pleasant to hear her sometimes."

"I know. I miss her, too." She waited for a reprimand about how that was a very human thing to say, but none came.

Instead her father simply nodded, and rose. "If you are going to insist on following me around, then I'd prefer for now you leave your helmet on outside your quarters. It will prevent some of the inevitable questions. Not all of them, but until this battle is over, enough."

"Another step in the campaign?" She tired not to be impatient, but the longer she was out on the fringes, the more she saw, the more she wondered if even Thrawn understood just how quickly they were running out of time.

"Indeed. The Rebels have been doing their best to convince everyone in this sector they intend to attack the Ubiqtorate base at Tangrene."

Thelea knew her father's propensity for drama, but unlike his officers she didn't bother hiding the fact. "Which means you've deduced their _actual_ target is where?"

His lip twisted just a bit, but that was the limit of his annoyance. "Bilbringi. As such, our battle group will be arriving in time to corner their attack force. Of course, if by some remote possibility their target _is_ Tangrene, the base's loss will be far more minor a setback than damage to the shipyards."

Thelea nodded quietly, then asked, "Is the _Defiance_ involved in this action?"

Thrawn paused, just perceptibly. "No. She is on patrol with the _Resolute_ in the Kessel Sector."

"Indeed." Now she deliberately looked around the room. "So since Telamara is nowhere near Bilbringi I assume this little blackwood art display is for my benefit." He didn't say anything. "That was cruel, Father."

He didn't say anything for a moment. "Fair enough." He touched a control, and the artwork vanished.

Thelea almost regretted it. She hesitated, but then, he'd asked about mother, her own feelings on the subject notwithstanding. "How is he?"

Thrawn hesitated just long enough before answering she almost thought he wasn't going to. "Captain Caelin is well-liked by his crew, and they are consistently one of the most effective ships in the outer fleet."

"Yet you didn't recall them for this campaign."

"The perimeter still requires defense," her father said. "You should know that better than most, and he _has_ demonstrated a certain aptitude for dealing with those particular enemies. That's why he is a captain."

"Yes. Which is why he's going to have to find out about me sooner or later." She tried not to picture Rurik, not to think about how much she missed his smile, his irreverent need to tease her even from the first, the euphoria of flying with him at her wing and knowing he had her back–

Thelea stopped herself. Now was not the time. "They're on the move, Father. We don't have much time any more. This campaign–"

"Will end. And soon." There was no mistaking that tone. "They will not find a unified Core, one fleet with a common purpose, nearly as easy picking as remote worlds on the Fringe."

"I hope you're right." She pulled the helmet back on. More or less, it was typical shadow scout, her choice when working with Imperials who didn't need to ask awkward questions. The slight modifications were only noticeable to the wearer and possibly to a shadowtrooper familiar with the standard equipment. The lightsaber on her belt was more obvious, though hopefully not the second, slightly smaller saber in a more discreet holster on her ankle. Lord Vader had, all those years ago before Endor, been right in that her mother's lightsaber was not truly suited to her. It had seemed right to make her own, even if the crystal she'd chosen (eyes closed, feeling for the one which had resonated most strongly) was a color that for some reason unnerved her Master. She carried Lisetha's gold-colored blade with her half out of sentiment, and half because carrying a spare weapon was only sensible.

As on-edge as the visions had left her, an E-11 and a few plasma grenades would have made her feel much better, too.

 _So would Father having the good sense to wear body armor_ , she thought, watching how he absently smoothed the white jacket, lest anyone see the Grand Admiral any way less than flawless. She understood the reluctance-it spoke of a lack of trust in his crew, it was indeed uncomfortable as her own armor attested, but while she'd pared down even the lighter scout arm and leg plating the full chest and back protectors always felt reassuring. He wasn't averse to it in situations where he anticipated danger, but he was also stubbornly resistant to the very notion unanticipated dangers truly factored into his world. Unanticipated setbacks, certainly. But direct personal threats? Even with the Rebellion fully aware of his existence now, and no doubt longing to eliminate him by any means possible, he simply refused to admit the possibility.

 _What did you say, mother? "Still so stubborn, and me not here to bring you down a peg?" How did you ever manage that, and how can I learn so I don't lose both of you?_

There was no answer, but she hadn't really expected one.

The bridge of a Star Destroyer in battle was always too calm for Thelea's taste. She preferred the speed and immediacy of an Interceptor cockpit, or her A-wing, though the shields still felt like cheating. Even now, with the unexpected arrival of a fleet of smuggler ships, the sudden upsurge in the Rebels' fighting ability, everyone had that cool focus on their duty stations, and more, a quiet competence that she knew came mostly from confidence in Grand Admiral Thrawn and his mad battle plans that always seemed to pan out. She knew far too well how easily he inspired that kind of pathological devotion. Usually, it was to their advantage. Sometimes . . . .

All but the Captain, at least. She was standing just at the edge of the ysalamir's range, so she wasn't sure if it was really the Force or she was simply getting more adept at reading human body language, but Pellaeon seemed increasingly anxious as the fight became a much bigger matter than easily trapping an unsuspecting Rebel raiding force. Her father was, too, but of course the humans couldn't tell.

A ping from his command board drew the Captain's attention and Thelea's. "Sir, we have a priority message coming in from Wayland." That human face with its obvious play of emotions twisted.

Time froze. Thelea felt a cold wash through her veins, a certainty, a sudden knowledge that she had seen this moment before. She had seen this moment a thousand times in the last three days. Even in the fog the presence of the ysalarmir caused she _knew._ The pressure in her mind was like, but unlike, the times her mother had spoken, this was only the weight behind the voice, voices, the power and pressure that she had felt then and when in the presence of the dark ones and their shadowy soldiers. This was bright and burning and utter, complete certainty with the weight of worlds pressing down on her mind.

 _Now. NOW!_

Distantly, she heard her father's order for Pellaeon to read the message, and the captain replying, an attack by natives, Rebel saboteurs . . . and Noghri.

The gray shadow behind her father's chair was moving, but so was she, her lightsaber already in hand.

"And a group of Noghri–"

Pellaeon would never remember precisely what happened next. He saw a gray blur aiming for his throat, and a flash of black as he was shoved hard aside, though he would have sworn neither laid a hand on him. Only one must have, he realized as he staggered against his command board, because suddenly the strange shadow scout agent that Thrawn had admitted to the bridge was between him and Rukh, striking out with her left arm and knocking aside the wiry little alien's assassin's knife. They were close enough that Pellaeon heard what he thought was a hiss of pain from the agent, or perhaps it was the whisper of cloth slicing as Rukh used that nightmare speed of his to change grip and slash between the guards on her forearm. She didn't react beyond the faint sound, though, shoving harder with the wounded left arm while her right swept up with something in it, a weapon, and she slammed the end against the Noghri's chest.

Then Pellaeon heard a sound he had not heard in person since the end of the Clone Wars, which he'd thought he would never hear again:

The distinctive _snap-hiss_ of a lightsaber igniting.

For a confused instant he didn't see the blade, and then with a surge of disgust and even faint sympathy he realized why: the red beam was only partially visible, sticking out from where it had pierced through the Noghri's chest. With a show of strength that was almost admirable, in a perverse way, the assassin gritted his teeth and hissed, "The Noghri people will repay this treachery. As I have already repaid you."

The voice filtered by the helmet was female and cold as interstellar space. "You have destroyed the Noghri people today. Take that thought with you to your ancestors, Rukh clan Baikh'vair. You have failed even in treason." She pulled the lightsaber sideways and swung it in an almost lazy arc. There was very little blood, Pellaeon thought, feeling torn between nausea and detachment, just a faint mist in the air as the lightsaber bisected the Noghri and the two halves fell twitching to the deck.

It was silent on the bridge, he realized as the shadow scout turned, except for the hum of the saber still glowing red in her hand. She looked to the command chair. Pellaeon followed her gaze. Thrawn was standing, turned towards the brief scene of combat, and for one terrifying and fascinating moment Pellaeon saw open, unconcealed shock on those alien features. And what might even, just for a second, have been fear.

The scout, meanwhile, seemed to be staring at Thrawn, though of course with the helmet it was hard to say. "He was going to kill you." There was a waver to her voice that had not been there a moment ago.

"So he was." Thrawn's voice was just a trace taut, but he seemed to have contained whatever emotion he'd allowed to show. "The attack on Wayland was a signal, no doubt."

"Indeed." And then Pellaeon realized there was a waver to her stance as well as her voice, as if she couldn't quite find her balance. The faceplate tilted down, and she seemed to be staring at her left arm.

The lightsaber slipped from her fingers and deactivated, clattered to the deck as her knees buckled.

Pellaeon lunged instinctively to catch her but somehow Thrawn was faster, slowing her as she crumpled and kneeling beside her, cradling her to keep her head from striking the deck. "Emergency alert, Captain! Medical team to the bridge immediately!" As Pellaeon, still half-numb with shock and shaking with the adrenaline, hit the alert button, the Admiral carefully eased the shadow scout's helmet free. Pellaeon heard a few gasps from nearby crew, quickly stifled. Perhaps it was simply that he had no energy left to be shocked, but somehow he was not surprised at the pale, powder-blue skin and tangled knot of blue-black hair, or that the eyes blinking and seemingly trying to focus on Thrawn were glowing red.

"Poison," was what she whispered, "on the blade. Not deep but deep enough."

"Quiet." Thrawn's voice had a softness Pellaeon had never heard, in a strange way wished he wasn't hearing now. "Save your strength. We can treat the poison. You know how to put yourself in a healing trance?"

She laughed, or it might have been a gasp. Pellaeon realized the blinking of her eyes was too rapid, and he looked for the medic team. "Can't," she said, and her voice was already weaker. "The ysalamir–too close."

Thrawn looked up, and Pellaeon found himself transfixed by how very, very alien those eyes suddenly seemed. "Captain, you have your sidearm?"

"Sir?" Pellaeon wondered if this was a very strange dream.

"The ysalamir. Kill it!"

The tone was so harsh, so _alien_ , that Pellaeon found himself fumbling for the usually-pointless sidearm which so rarely left its holster before he could truly process what he was doing. With alarms screaming already one blaster shot didn't really add that much to the pandemonium, and he tried push down a trace of guilt as the sessile creature writhed momently and went limp. The change to the girl, though, was instant. She drew in a deep breath, half-rising, but Thrawn held her still, murmuring something Pellaeon couldn't hear but which seemed to calm her.

Then she reached up, pressing her gloved hand against Thrawn's chest, a strange gesture, and Thrawn covered her hand with his own. The glowing alien eyes were fixed on the Admiral's, and she said, distinct enough Pellaeon heard her: "It's all right. Really, it's all right." She fought up against Thrawn's hold and said clearly:

"The Force is with us.We're going to win."

Her eyes closed, and Thrawn pressed two fingers to the pulse point at her throat (internal anatomy, Pellaeon thought distractedly, must at least be similar.) He seemed to sag with relief as the medic team finally arrived. "She's been wounded with a blade coated in a neurotoxin," Thrawn said, and his voice had an odd distant quality.

The led medic was checking the same pulse point, and comparing with the readout of a scanner. "Pulse is slow but present, respiration very shallow." The other medic was preparing the stretcher.

"She can place herself in a hibernation state," and Thrawn still sounded detached, distracted, as if he were thinking aloud. "It should slow the poison. Keep it from spreading to her heart."

"Good to know." The medic moved to support her shoulders, but Thrawn's hands tightened convulsively. Pellaeon could see bones pressing against the skin. The medic paused, and then did something that ought to have earned any crew member, let alone one so low-ranking, a harsh reprimand at the least.

He reached out, and gently touched Thrawn's arm.

"Sir? You have to let us take her now." The tone was soft, and reassuring, and more like speaking to a frightened child than his supreme commander. "We'll take good care of her, I promise, but you have to let her go."

Thrawn, for a brief moment, didn't seem to hear him. Then he nodded, slowly, and his hold relaxed. "Anything you have to do, do it. Save her life." The medic clearly knew his opening when he saw it and he took her shoulders while the other medic came around to her feet. They had her secured on the stretcher and were rushing for the lifts as Thrawn rose, picking up the lightsaber where she had dropped it. He stared at the weapon for a moment, seemingly lost in thought and oblivious to the dark smear of blood her hand had left on the once-pristine white uniform, directly over what would, in a human at least, be his heart.

Pellaeon drew in an unsteady breath and forced himself to be calm. "Admiral?"

Thrawn looked up sharply, as if, despite the noise of the alarms, he had forgotten where he was. "Yes, Captain?" His voice at least sounded stable, normal.

It seemed almost insane to have to say it, but then everything he'd just witnessed beggared belief. "Sir, the smuggler fleet–and Wayland–"

"Wayland will keep," and Thrawn very deliberately looked at the remains of his treacherous bodyguard on the deck plates. "As will this new betrayal." He made a sharp gesture and two troopers rushed forward to remove the body. Or the pieces of the body.

"Admiral Thrawn?" The comm officer sounded as shaky as Pellaeon felt, but he was doing his best to sound confident. " _Stormhawk_ and _Nemesis_ are requesting orders. What shall I tell them, sir?" Pellaeon was wondering much the same thing himself.

Thrawn walked back to his command chair, looking almost entirely composed for having just survived an assassination attempt. "They are to close the perimeter gap left by the Golan II. TIE fighters deploy into the shipyards to run down the Rebels fighters who took advantage of the gap, but the Destroyers' priority is to prevent the capital ships from entering." He continued to stare at the tactical display for a moment. "As for these new forces . . . ." His lips thinned. "If they can be destroyed, do so. But our priority is preventing further damage to the shipyards themselves. If allowing them to escape serves that, so be it."

"Yes, sir." Pellaeon heard the comm officer relaying orders, observed their own repositioning to better allow for a launch of reserve fighters, but . . . . "Admiral, are you sure that you're–"

"As I said, Captain," and from the way he raised his voice he intended for everyone within earshot to hear, "treason can keep. I am uninjured." He looked down at the lightsaber. "She said we are going to win. I think we should focus on making that happen, don't you?"

And much to Pellaeon's surprise (though he thought by now he really ought to have known better) while it was not as clean or simple as they had originally hoped, within an hour, they had.


	2. Chapter 2

It was several hours of mopping up and accounting for damages–more TIEs lost than he had hoped, the Golan II damaged severely enough it would be offline for several weeks in repairs, one Dreadnaught lost, two more damaged enough they would require major refitting, the crystal gravfield trap lost with one of smuggler's ships as they attempted to flee, the shipyard needing repairs as badly as the ships they normally repaired and built. The Destroyers at least had suffered relatively minor damage.

The Rebel forces and their criminal allies had been slaughtered.

More had escaped than their cheerful estimation of a single surviving cruiser–three of the capital ships had ultimately fled to safety, including Ackbar's own. The ships which had invaded the yards, on the other hand, hadn't been as lucky–three X-wings had escaped, and two which had not had surviving pilots who were even now in detention cells. But that was all. Not as clean or complete a victory as they would have liked, but it could have been worse.

Pellaeon thought of Rukh's bisected remains crumpling to the deck, his assassin's blade falling from lifeless fingers without striking its intended target. Yes, it could have been much, much worse.

The medical bay was not as busy as it could have been after a major engagement when Pellaeon entered it. They had been fortunate in several ways. A medic, the same who'd responded to the bridge call, saw him enter and approached, datapad in hand. "Captain Pellaeon. I was hoping to speak to you."

"Yes, Specialist . . . ." He probably ought to have known the medic's name, but there were, after all, more than thirty thousand crew aboard.

"Pagiter, sir," and going by tone, the medic hadn't expected him to know it. "In fact I was going to call for you if you hadn't come down."

"Indeed?" Informing the Captain of casualties and injuries was standard procedure, but normally that was a written report.

"Yes, sir." Pagiter grimaced. "It's about . . . well, it's about the patient from the bridge, sir."

Pellaeon had to think a moment, and then he realized who the medic meant. "Ah. The scout."

"Yes–well, that's actually part of it." He gestured for Pellaeon to follow him deeper into the medical bay and around a privacy screen. The girl, or whatever the proper term for her species was, lay on a diagnostic table, the glowing eyes closed and most of her form hidden by the monitors and equipment. A bacta frame covered her left arm, or rather, and Pellaeon suppressed a shudder as he realized, covered what remained of her left arm, which was only from the elbow up.

The medic made a cursory check of the monitors before turning back to Pellaeon. "We couldn't save her arm," he said bluntly. "Whatever she did, a trance or hypnotic state, she was somehow able to slow the poison spreading and that probably saved her life, but it also concentrated the toxin, and necrosis around the wound was too deep. I'm sorry, but this was the best we could do."

"I'm sure we can provide prosthetics, considering what she accomplished with her sacrifice." But Pellaeon could see that was not what the medic had in mind. "Was there another issue? Other than her identity–Admiral Thrawn could provide that, I'm sure–"

"That's part of it, sir," Pagiter said, holding out the datapad. "As part of treatment we ran the usual diagnostics, including a genetic scan. We have her identity, sir. She's already in the ship's data banks, but . . . well, see for yourself."

Pellaeon was about to reprimand the man for prevaricating when he saw the text on the pad. This mysterious agent of Thrawn's had a standard Imperial Navy file, in the usual format. Commander Thelea, no other name (and he wondered if that was another species trait, whatever species they were), but not a shadow scout or trooper of any kind, not even ISB or Ubiqtorate–"She's a TIE fighter pilot?" Then from where, and why, had she come by an A-wing?

"Yes, sir," Pagiter said, "but it's not just that. Sir, her last recorded assignment was with Gamma wing of the the 207th Interceptor assault squadron. They were attached to the _Executor._ That's why her records were here–she was in the Outer Rim Fleet, Death Squadron itself. There were only two recorded survivors of the 207th, Captain, and she isn't one of them. Her records list her as missing, presumed killed in action, at Endor." He must have known, given the current state of the Empire, what Pellaeon's first thought was. "And she's not a clone, sir. Or at least, she's not one grown by the method we're using, or any method the system recognizes."

"The Admiral identified her as a personal agent," though now something about that seemed strange, off, not the entire truth, and for once Pellaeon was not content to let Thrawn's half-explanations lie. "Possibly, her records are deliberately incomplete."

"Perhaps, sir." Pellaeon could hear the skepticism in Pagiter's tone. "And the Admiral–that's the other matter. She required transfusions during and after surgery, and while the synthblood would have been compatible it's always preferable to use the real thing where possible, so I used some of the Grand Admiral's reserve supply."

"I'm sure he'll understand, Specialist," Pellaeon said, but the medic almost cut him off.

"I'm sure he will, sir, but that's not my point." Pagiter grimaced. "Just to be safe, in case of potential type reactions, we ran a comparison test, to be sure there were no compatibility issues. Captain, this may not be my place, but . . . the genetic types match in considerable excess of simple conspecifics." He must have understood the look on Pellaeon's face because he clarified, "They share too large a percentage of their genes to be explained as simply being the same species. If they were human . . . ." He paused, again looking pained.

"How closely related are you saying you believe them to be?" Pellaeon didn't know why he felt almost numb.

Pagiter shifted uneasily from foot to food. "Closely. If they were human, that degree of similarity would indicate a very close kinship, full siblings or, given the significant age variance . . . ." He sighed. "Sir, before I was recruited," and the wry twist to the word told Pellaeon plainly that it was a euphemism for 'conscripted,' "I was in emergency response medicine on my homeworld. Captain, when I was on the bridge today–I've seen the look on the Admiral's face before, whenever I've had to pry a dying child out of a parent's arms. They can never quite seem to let go, even when they know we're there to help."

He looked down, but there was nothing else really to say. In some part of his mind, Pellaeon realized he had known, too, for the same basic reason. After all . . . if that had been Hallena's son, _his_ son, dying at _his_ feet, would his response have been any different? "I see."

Pagiter shrugged uncomfortably. "All I mean is . . . please tell the Admiral she's badly hurt, but she'll live. It was touch and go for a while, but she _is_ going to be all right."

Pellaeon nodded slowly, staring down at the datapad and the record displayed. Nearly a decade of service–a reconnaissance pilot, wingleader, transferred by high-level request to the _Executor_ and therefore one of the Imperial Navy's best, and like so many others a career that ended abruptly at a single battle. Except it had not. Somehow, Commander Thelea had survived, but instead of staying with the fleet she had found a way into Thrawn's service. Absently he read down the record, to the sections for next of kin. _None._

He blinked, and tapped the section, which should have shown information about her family, her system of origin, world of birth.

 _Unknown. Unknown. Unknown._

 _If I were going to protect someone, but couldn't hide the resemblance . . . ._

He lowered the datapad and handed it back to the medic. "Thank you, Specialist Pagiter. I'll report the good news to the Admiral. If there's any change in Commander Thelea's condition, alert me immediately. And needless to say, the information you've given me, about her identity and . . . the rest, goes no further. Understood?"

"Yes, sir." Pagiter nodded, but he ducked his head and avoided Pellaeon's gaze as the Captain left the infirmary.

Despite the events of the day being indelibly seared into his memory, to the point he suspected several rounds of syrspirit if he'd been able to come by it wouldn't obliterate them, Pellaeon still paused in the antechamber. He was half-expecting Rukh to appear from his usual post in the shadows. It was strangely heartening, all things considered, to realize that problem had been dealt with once and for all.

It did leave him in the awkward position of standing in an empty antechamber, though.

"Admiral?" he finally asked the empty air, and instead of the expected response, the door simply slid open, and Pellaeon stepped through–

Into near-total darkness.

Thrawn had withdrawn from the bridge almost immediately after the engagement concluded, and Pellaeon had assumed he was, as usual, examining the after-action reports, or preparing for the next step in the plan now that this one was concluded, accounting for the new variables a battle inevitably created. But there were neither tactical displays nor artworks illuminating the chamber with their holographic glow. Instead, for a moment, he thought that perhaps Thrawn wasn't there at all and had gone to his quarters, until he saw the command chair was turned away from the door and a voice said, "I am here, Captain."

The Admiral didn't sound that much different than usual, Pellaeon thought, the normal chiding but not-quite-disapproving tone. But nothing more, either. As Pellaeon approached and stepped around where he could see, he noted Thrawn had not bothered to change from the blood-stained uniform. He was not sitting as he usually did, at ease and in command. Instead, he was bent forward, the glowing eyes fixed down on something in his hands.

Commander Thelea's lightsaber.

"The shipyards are fully secured again, Admiral," Pellaeon said. Start with the simple, ordinary business. " _Chimaera_ requires only minor maintenance, as does _Nemsis. Stormhawk,_ unfortunately, suffered more extensive damage, including loss of the forward projectors for–"

Thrawn didn't move, but he said quietly, "I will review their reports later. The pilots who were taken prisoner?"

"In detention. Routine interrogation will be scheduled at your direction, of course, once they're determined to be in adequate physical condition." He hesitated a moment. "There have been . . . no further reports from Wayland, sir. We have to assume the base there has fallen, and the storehouse been compromised. Though that would also indicate, perhaps, the matter of Master C'baoth has been resolved without our having to address it."

"A small victory, if so." For the first time, Pellaeon realized the ysalamir and its nutrient frame were gone. "Was there anything else?'

That tone, he knew. That tone meant that Thrawn knew perfectly well there was something and would not take kindly to prevarication. "I visited the medical bay, sir, once the bridge was secured from battle stations." He paused, but there was no reply. "The medic attending her wished me to inform you that Commander Thelea has survived her injuries."

There was a sudden slump to Thrawn's shoulders and Pellaeon actually heard the sharp exhalation. "Of course, her genetic typing would still be in the systems," Thrawn said, as if he were speaking to himself.

Pellaeon nodded, and when there was nothing further, continued, "However, there were some complications. He apologizes, but they were forced to amputate part of her left arm. The damage from the neurotoxin was too severe."

The glowing eyes closed briefly, and once again Thrawn seemed to be speaking to himself rather than his captain. "Her left arm, but at least not my right." Pellaeon wondered, but knew better than to question. "And?"

There was no tactful way to broach the subject, other than indirectly, to allow Thrawn to draw conclusions about what might or might not have been found. "It was necessary for her to receive a transfusion, and given the situation the medics used some of the blood reserve kept for you."

There was a long pause. "Whatever was necessary, of course." Thrawn's tone was terrifyingly even. "Was Th-Commander Thelea awake?"

"No, sir." Pellaeon heard the slip, but how could he ask? "The medic overseeing her care did ask me to assure you that she _will_ be all right. It was apparently a near thing–" Thrawn flinched. "But she's expected to recover."

There was another long pause, and Pellaeon had the uneasy feeling Thrawn had forgotten his presence. Or worse, didn't care.

What he finally said, though, was only, "I made a mistake."

"Sir?" It might not have been the wisest thing to ask.

Thrawn looked at him now, and the expression on his face was a strange sort of resolve, one Pellaeon had never seen before. "I don't mean the battle, Captain. Our losses and the damage to the shipyard were unforseen, yes, but battles rarely go precisely as planned. But . . . C'baoth. The ysalamiri. Karrde. The . . . Noghri." There was a wry twist to his lip. "I erred about all of them. I don't even know how severely yet or what the final cost of my errors will be. But what it _almost_ cost me . . . what it _has_ cost her . . . ." He looked down at the lightsaber and his hand tightened around the hilt. "We had a very near miss today, Captain. And the fault is mine."

"Admiral, you could hardly have foreseen that Rukh would turn on you!" Pellaeon didn't entirely believe that, but it was more important now that Thrawn did. "Or that the Rebels would locate Mount Tantiss and strike at the same time as the Bilbringi operation." How they had discovered Mount Tantiss was another matter Pellaeon didn't even want to guess at. Treachery on C'baoth's part, desperation to lure "his" Jedi to him? Jade, completing her betrayal of the new Empire? How long had the Noghri's betrayal gone on and how orchestrated was it by the Rebels? C'baoth's loss was a relief, but if the cloning facility was gone then the entire plan, the whole campaign, was at risk. To say nothing of what would happen if this was a fatal blow not just to Thrawn's plans but his confidence. "No one in the Fleet thinks we've failed. We _won_ today."

"Only a battle, Captain. We have yet to win the war." Thrawn was looking at the lightsaber again. "She said the Force was with us, and that we will win. I wonder which victory she meant."

Pellaeon hesitated again, but the lightsaber, the absence of the ysalamiri . . . he had to ask. "Admiral? Commander Thelea did say that. And her choice of weapons . . . she's–"

"A Jedi?" Thrawn's tone didn't reveal anything. "Yes. In her own fashion." There was a long pause. "And she is my daughter."

Pellaeon had suspected, known, but to hear it aloud . . . it was a cold, harsh reminder how little Thrawn had ever truly revealed about himself, even to Pellaeon. "I see." It seemed inadequate. But the notion of Thrawn as anything other than the Grand Admiral, a creature of the bridge, the command room, was almost incomprehensible. "Her file doesn't show–"

"At the time she entered the Academy she was unaware of that fact," Thrawn said, his tone still unreadable and while not a bit of the accent had changed, somehow more alien. "It would not have been in her interest if it were common knowledge."

Pellaeon understood that, probably better than Thrawn even knew. That other blank line, though, in the Commander's file, was not so explicable. "And your . . . the . . . her mother?" Better than many in the Navy, Pellaeon understood that such things were not unheard of or even as uncommon as many liked to pretend, but again with Thrawn, the notion of a mistress hidden away somewhere was almost unimaginable.

Thrawn cocked a blue-black eyebrow, and Pellaeon finally saw a little of the familiar stern demeanor again. "My _wife_ ," and the slight emphasis told Pellaeon the implied insult had been heard and would not be addressed further, "died when Thelea was very young. Thelea was our firstborn and only child, and even if circumstances had not intervened, it would have been more appropriate for her maternal family to raise her after her mother's death." His tone was almost clinical. "Had I known the manner in which they would raise her . . . denying my name was not unexpected, but they raised her as a foundling, _illegitimate_ relation taken as a charity, and she grew up never knowing her mother's name or identity. That was a far greater crime." He studied the lightsaber again. "She should have known a great deal about her mother."

"I'm sorry, sir." Pellaeon said the rote words, but meant them, both for the loss, and for his own unspoken assumptions. He tried to imagine what sort of woman could have captivated Thrawn enough to marry her, have a child with her, and clearly, still feel her absence. "She-your wife . . . she must have been a remarkable woman."

" _The_ woman, Captain," Thrawn said quietly. He looked up, and there was a wry edge to his expression. "Don't mistake me–among our people, those of a certain class, at least, marriages are political alliances, arranged among families, and neither Lisetha nor I entered into the match based on sentiment or even a great deal of personal choice. But once the decision was made . . . ." He paused again, for such a long time Pellaeon almost excused himself, but Thrawn continued, "I doubt I could have made a better choice if I had been given all the liberty and time I could have asked for. She was indeed a remarkable woman, Captain. But I doubt even she would have predicted what her daughter accomplished today."

Pellaeon nodded. "Commander Thelea saved you, perhaps me . . . and without you, sir, we would have lost the battle today." He tried not to think what Rukh's success would have meant, the confusion, the inevitable scramble, just as after Endor, and he once again trying to string together the tattered remains of a fleet, only now there would have been no one waiting to appear and build them out of the ashes again.

"She saved the Empire, Captain." Thrawn was staring at the lightsaber again. "Whether she has also saved the galaxy remains to be seen."

He looked up again, and he seemed the Grand Admiral that Pellaeon knew, except the pristine uniform was still streaked with blood. "You may return to your duties, Captain. The sooner the _Chimaera_ is fully at ready status, the sooner we can return to Wayland and find out exactly how much our late Jedi Master's madness has cost us." Pellaeon nodded, and turned to go.

Halfway to the door, Thrawn spoke again. "Captain."

"Yes, sir?"

There was a brief pause. "Contact the _Defiance._ She and the _Resolute_ are to proceed to Honoghr, and rendezvous with Dreadnaughts 216 and 433."

Pellaeon felt a surge of satisfaction, tempered only by a faint sense of disappointment _Chimaera_ wouldn't be taking a principle role. "And when they arrive?"

"From their current location that should take them a little under twelve hours." Thrawn hesitated a moment. "For the moment, upon arrival after neutralizing orbital defenses and any Rebel presence, _Defiance_ is to destroy the valley installation they believe we're unaware of via orbital bombardment. The rest of the population is to be contained at Nystao. I believe a more pointed demonstration of our displeasure is required. Bombardment of their village sites, destruction of the meeting houses, and executions of the clan dynasts. No public display periods this time, simple terminations."

Pellaeon nodded, though privately he wondered a bit at the choice. Caelin was one of the younger captains in the fleet, but while he was rather grim for his age he'd never shown any real taste for brutality. Though, of course, once word spread through the fleet exactly what crime they were avenging, the problem might be keeping ships not detailed to Honoghr from taking matters into their own hands.

Thrawn, meanwhile, had gone back to contemplating the darkness, so Pellaeon continued for the door. He'd almost reached it when the Admiral spoke again.

"If, however, Commander Thelea's condition . . . deteriorates before the task force arrives . . . ." There was another pause. "In that event, I will contact Captain Caelin myself. Under those circumstances, the orders will change." The red eyes glittered in the darkness. "The price they pay will depend on what the final cost of their betrayal turns out to be."


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: In which we see yes, Thrawn is sort of a good father. And for those who are wondering what Pellaeon was talking about and what the past history he has that Thrawn knows about, no, I am not a huge fan of Karen Traviss, but I did very much enjoy how she handled Pellaeon, and frankly . . . I kind of like the notion of Pellaeon as what TV Tropes calls the Chick Magnet. (And if we're sticking with the Holmes-Watson analogy, Watson DID have an eye for the ladies...) Really, I can understand how he wound up with at least one and possibly two illegitimate sons.

They jumped to Wayland a matter of hours after Pellaeon left the command room, which meant almost a day in hyperspace to contemplate the next steps. Thrawn knew he was needed on the bridge, if for no other reason than to put in an appearance, remind the crew that he was here, unharmed, their campaign would continue. There were contingencies to plan, if Mount Tantiss were truly destroyed. He would have to communicate with Nirauan and the _Admonitor_. Their return might need to be hastened. A great many things might need to be accelerated, if their new supply of clone troops and pilots were drastically reduced. It would be some time before the few cylinders that had been moved could be in full operation, let alone reproduced.

And if Thelea had been correct, and they were running out of time, the poison creeping from the Unknown Regions into the Core . . . .

He had gone back to his quarters only long enough to finally change out of the stained uniform jacket. Instead of tossing it directly into the laundry (where someone could undoubtedly remove the stains rapidly setting to rust in the white fabric) he draped it across a chair back, where he would be certain to see it. He'd been grateful no one had been foolish enough to say it aloud, but he had seen it in their eyes: _"At_ _least it isn't his blood._ "

 _Only it is. Pellaeon knows, though he would never say so aloud in front of the crew._ He had read the Captain's records, of course, and knew of all the men he could have chosen as his second, Pellaeon might most understand the pressures of having a child one couldn't acknowledge, a painful choice in his past. But knowing and sharing that knowledge aloud were not the same thing. One did not discuss matters like that with a subordinate. Least of all a human subordinate.

Which left, until the Jedi's inevitable arrival, no one to discuss it with at all.

 _My blood. My fault. Lisetha, what have I done?_ There was no answer. There hadn't been for nearly six years. Now of all times, he wished fervently she would find a way to reach him again. _We've made her into a weapon, your pet Jedi and I, and now she's in the medical bay, her arm gone, for what?_

For nothing, if this campaign failed. She would have lost her arm, nearly her life, for nothing.

 _And you, wife . . . you would have died for nothing._

He thought again for a moment about those cloning cylinders, and once again put the thought aside. Even if he could have found any sort of sample, Thelea and Aleishia's response to the clones, their unease and their insistence that as far as the Force was concerned, there was something off about them, said what some part of him had known: that a clone would be nothing but a hollow copy, no more real than a replica droid. Lisetha was gone, even her voice lost to him forever, and no clone could replace her. He'd had long years to grow accustomed to her absence, but there were times that the emptiness forced itself back to the forefront of his mind, and he found himself wishing for her advice, her political acumen, her wit . . . .

The simple comfort of her presence.

Lisetha. Thrass. Now, very nearly, Thelea. His hubris had nearly cost him the last real family he had.

He allowed himself one minute only to feel the aching, longing grief again before shutting it away and leaving his quarters. It was a strange feeling, walking the _Chimaera'_ s halls without Rukh's constant presence. How long had he had a knife at his throat and not realized it? When had the Noghri turned? Khabarakh clan Khim'bar, of course. That was when it had started, and he had been blind. He'd had all the pieces in front of him, he'd assembled the puzzle, and he had gotten it completely wrong. Since then, or not long after, his death had been shadowing him, waiting for the moment to strike, and today that moment had come–

And been blocked. By Thelea, acting on the will of the Force, or so she said. Thrawn had never fully trusted that mystic energy, least of all when it came to his own safety (what good had the vaunted Force done for Lisetha, after all?) Unlike many Imperial officers he did not question that it existed–the Emperor alone had provided evidence of that, even if he had not already seen more than enough evidence that there was an energy which some beings could sense and use. He had not, however, thought it took any notice of him. And yet here they were. In as much as this mysterious power cared, he was meant to be spared. To preside over the unification of the Empire and the defense of the galaxy?

He shook his head. The future was not immutably written by some mystical energy field, whether some people could access and manipulate it or not. His surviving, Rukh's failure, proved that. Thelea's vision had _not_ come to pass. Forewarned was, as always, forearmed. Now if he could only make the rest of the galaxy understand that . . . the Rebels were as stubborn in their principles as his own people, and just as with his own people it was rotting them from within.

The medical bay was quiet, most of the lights dimmed, and he was for once able to enter somewhere on the ship without being noticed. The droids, of course, ignored him completely, and he hadn't seen any of the human medics. Some part of his mind found it irritating, a dereliction that with at least one critical patient no one appeared to be in attendance, but he suppressed the thought. If anything the quiet was reassuring. It meant no one thought constant monitoring was necessary, that a patient was not about to take a turn for the worse.

Thelea was lying on a diagnostics bed, a bacta frame hiding most of her left arm. Keeping the tissue alive, until she was awake and stable enough to begin fitting a prosthetic limb. He wondered absently about cloning full limbs–could the Spaarti technique be used for something that refined? He put the thought aside. If the Emperor's mountain were destroyed, they had too few of the cylinders left to risk on anything but trying to replicate the technology. Thelea would have to be content with a mechanical hand. She would accept that. She had been raised harshly, and unfairly, and the years living among the humans had given her some flashes of spirit that were not appropriate, but she had learned their ways in spite of it all. She was Chiss, she was born to nobility, and she would accept this new problem calmly and rationally.

Her eyes were closed, and someone had undone her hair from the knot she kept it in under her helmet. It hung loose like a child's, pooled around her face, and a glossy black lock had worked its way across her forehead. Thrawn reached down and smoothed her hair back, noting how warm her skin felt. He turned and checked the monitors–not a fever, the computer indicated, and he felt another twinge of relief.

" _Va'ti?"_

The childish, soft, address, "papa" rather than "father", almost didn't register, and he turned. The glow of her eyes was distressingly dull, but she was looking at him and her gaze was clear. Her voice, too, sounded dry and weak, but she spoke clearly and their language, not Basic. "You're all right?'

"Hush, little one." When was the last time he'd called her that? He took her hand (her only hand, and her put that thought aside, too), thinking how long it had been since she'd seemed so fragile. Not since that first moment when Lisetha had placed the tiny, somber-eyed infant in his arms and told him this was Mitth'ele'arana, his firstborn. He'd thought he'd been afraid then, calculating all the dangers and risks in the galaxy that awaited such a defenseless little creature. This was worse. This was his fault. "I am not the one who was injured."

"I wasn't sure . . . the battle. The shipyards. We won?" She sounded so tired, and she made no effort to look towards the immobilized remainder of her arm.

"We won. We're en route to Wayland now, to investigate the report of the attack on the storehouse there."

Thelea's lips pressed in a thin line. "If he isn't dead, I'll kill him."

"You will _not!_ " It came out sharper than Thrawn had intended, more so to anyone who spoke their language. If by some chance C'baoth was not dead, then this was an error he would correct. Personally, if possible. "We will be there in less than twenty hours. And even if there were some chance you would be out of the medical bay by then, which there is not–" He saw the stubborn set of her jaw and wondered why the expression looked vaguely familiar–"you are in no condition to confront even an injured C'baoth. Certainly not alone."

"Oh, don't worry on that account." She found the energy to muster up a wry smile. "She'll meet us at Wayland, if she doesn't beat us there."

 _She._ Of course. And unless he found some means to intercept her, then no one's presence, not stormtroopers, not junior officers, not Pellaeon, not even Thelea if she managed to be on her feet by then, would prevent the renegade Jedi from delivering the blistering tongue-lashing she no doubt thought he richly deserved. For once, he thought, he might allow it. For once, she might well be right.

He had never liked her, even before the stories of the unity of all life and Jedi self-sacrifice had played to the worst of Lisetha's tendencies and cost her her life. Aleishia had always been strange and serene and far too alien, and her influence on Lisetha had, if he was honest, made him jealous. And he loathed the connection the Force permitted between her and Thelea. The only point on which they had ever agreed was the dangers lurking in the far reaches of the galaxy. Aleishia had lost her mate to the same destructive force that had taken Lisetha. They shared a purpose, but philosophically . . . . "And how does your Master know what happened?"

"The Force, Papa. She probably felt it the instant it happened. Parck's probably heard by now, though hopefully she had a clear enough sense it was I who was injured, and made sure he knows. If he thinks something's happened to you, with no real way of knowing . . . you need to tell Pellaeon about them." She sighed and closed her eyes. "Of course he and everyone in the system will know about Master Aleishia soon. She'll know where we've gone, and I expect she'll have words for you."

"I'm sure she will." He hesitated. "Forgive me, daughter."

Her eyes opened again, and her brow furrowed. "I got myself into this, Father. Anything I needed to forgive you for, I did long ago." She sighed. "And in any case, if the choice was between my life and yours, there _was_ no choice. Without you, we fail. I am expendable, you are not."

"No." He tightened his grip on her hand. "You are _not_ expendable."

"I didn't know you cared that much." There was a waver to her voice, and somehow she sounded very young indeed, though to his mild surprise he realized she wasn't-she was older now than Lisetha had been when they married. "How very uncultured of you."

"You are my daughter," he said simply. "Whether expressing it is appropriate or not, I care more about your life than my own. And while I wish you had not taken the risks you did today, I am so very proud of you."

Her fingers tightened around his. "Funny. I guess I am just like your pet human officers." He raised an eyebrow. "I can't think of anything I'd rather hear than that you're proud of me."

For now, he let the remark about pets slide. Given her taste in far more intimate relationships, she was hardly one to talk. "Your mother would be proud of you, too."

Thelea didn't reply for a moment. "I hope so."

Before he could reply, there was a quiet cough from outside the privacy screen, and a human medic stepped into view. "Excuse me, Admiral," and Thrawn recognized the medic who'd responded to the call to the bridge. "I heard voices, but I didn't realize it was you. Forgive the interruption."

"The fault is mine, Specialist Pagiter," and he saw the flicker of surprise, quickly suppressed, in the human's eyes. "I merely wished to check on my–Commander Thelea's condition personally." He tried to discretely withdraw his hand, but Thelea tightened her grip and ignored the disapproving look he gave her.

"I see the patient is awake," and Pagiter discreetly crossed to the other side of the diagnostic table as Thelea refused to relinquish her grip. "Are you in any pain, Commander?"

"No more than one might expect, Specialist," Thelea said. "I gather there's something you have to tell me about my arm."

The medic flinched visibly, and Thrawn murmured, in their own tongue, "Now who's being uncultured, child?" He looked back to Pagiter, and made a decision. "My daughter has a unique sense of humor. But she is aware of her condition."

The medic and Thelea both seemed taken aback at the casual acknowledgment. To his credit, though, Pagiter recovered his composure almost instantly. "Good. Then I'm sure you know as well, we have excellent prosthetics. As soon as the amputation site is stabilized, we can see about fitting one." He looked slightly uneasy. "I'm afraid, temporarily at least, the skin tones won't be a perfect match. Or, really, any sort of match at all–"

"I'll be happy just to have a functioning hand again." Thelea was indeed as cool and equanimous about it as any properly-raised Chiss. "Minor cosmetic details can wait."

"Excellent. All my patients should be so agreeable." He studied the monitors and looked back to Thelea. "You seem very awake and coherent, Commander."

"Our species may look superficially like humans, but we're more resilient." Thelea didn't so much as glance at her father. "And the 'Commander' isn't necessary, Specialist, I resigned my commission after Endor."

"For certain values of the term," Thrawn murmured, but she chose to ignore that as well.

"What would you prefer I address you as?" This medic certainly was cool under proverbial fire. Thrawn made a mental note to look up his service record and see whether a promotion would be appropriate.

His daughter, meanwhile, cocked an eyebrow and Thrawn once again had that nagging sense of familiarity. "For now, 'Thelea' will be fine."

The medic looked uneasily from her to Thrawn, who kept his expression carefully neutral, and back again. "All right, Thelea," he said. "Are you experiencing any pain, dizziness, disorientation, or other discomfort?"

"Beyond the feeling that I have more of my left arm than I can see I really do? That's very disconcerting." Thelea tried to sit up, and Thrawn automatically pushed her back. She glared, but he saw the smile that Pagiter quickly hid. "Father . . . ."

"You are recovering from being poisoned," he said. "You do not attempt to sit up, stand up, or move until you are given permission to do so." He looked at Pagiter. " _You_ have permission to use whatever means are required to restrain her if she is uncooperative."

"Yes, sir," and the medic sounded rather pleased. It likely wasn't often he was given such carte blanche with unruly patients. "Though sitting up, carefully, would be a good start. I'll adjust the bed so your head's still supported. You're probably going to be dizzy just from lying down so long, so go slowly."

"I'm not as delicate as you all think." But Thrawn noticed she closed her eyes and kept them closed for a minute after she was sitting upright. She opened her eyes slowly, and he noted with some relief their glow was stronger, closer to normal. Deliberately, she turned and looked at the bacta frame covering what remained of her left arm, which was mostly from the elbow up. There was a tightening at her jaw and her lips pressed thin, and Thrawn fought down the urge to apologize again. When she spoke, though, she said only, "I suppose it could have been worse."

"The blade which . . . Rukh carried," and Thrawn forced himself to keep a level tone mentioning the creature's name, "had an extremely potent mixture of poisons on it. The Noghri may talk of honor, but they are a practical people. If he'd struck somewhere more vital than your arm it could have been a great deal worse."

"If he'd struck me in the chest he'd have broken his blade on my armor," Thelea said dryly. "That is the purpose of wearing chest plating, after all. At least I was able to slow the poison." She frowned, and looked away from both of them for a moment with that distracted gaze he knew meant she was accessing that mysterious energy. "The ysalarmiri . . . you moved them. They're all in one place now."

"Away from the medical bay, and any areas I thought it likely you'd be." He sighed. "If C'baoth is dead, they're superfluous now anyway, unless we have another surprise visit from Skywalker. And I didn't want any of them to inadvertently hinder you again."

"I think I can leave my recovery to conventional means now," Thelea said, with a nod to the medic. "In fact, the sooner we can proceed with that, the sooner I can be back on my feet. How long will fitting a prosthetic take?"

"If the wound is clean and all the nerve and circulatory connections check out, not long at all." Pagiter was checking several readouts on different machines. "In fact, while I'd like you to get a few more hours' rest first, there doesn't seem to be any reason we can't proceed quickly."

"I've had plenty of sleep, thank you very much." Thelea was fussing, trying to sit up farther, and Thrawn gave her a dark look. She glared back, with that naggingly-familiar set of her jaw, but then she sighed and settled again. "The sooner, the better. I don't want you without a bodyguard until we know the Noghri situation is under control, Father, and I don't trust anyone but myself."

"That situation is being addressed as we speak." He left out which Star Destroyer was taking point. Caelin was a distraction she didn't need at the moment. Or any time soon, if he still had anything to say about it.

"Nevertheless." That stubborn look was back and he could not, for the life of him, think who she reminded him of–not her mother, Lisetha had never been so brutally determined. "And you will, for all our sakes, wear armor when we're dirtside. I don't mind losing limbs for you but I'd prefer you take sensible precautions to limit the possibility. Besides," and she looked sideways at the medic, "if I'm constantly needing arms and legs replaced it'll become a serious drain on Imperial resources."

The medic pressed his mouth tight as if he were struggling with a laugh, but he only said, "Yes, ma'am, I believe it would." Then, with a look that said he had decided to take a chance, "And with all due respect, Grand Admiral, your–your daughter is right. We can't afford to lose you, so any precautions you take would be a relief to the entire crew."

Thrawn suppressed the instinctive urge to reprimand the man for his impertinence, and Thelea for the rather smug look on her face. Instead, he forced himself to consider the comment. Was the crew really so personally invested in his command? Even down to those who, like this medic, never even saw him on a day to day basis? "I will take the question under advisement." Thelea's eyes narrowed, and _that_ expression he recognized, with a stabbing pain that surprised him. That look was purely her mother. "And that is all I am willing to concede on that point."

"For now." The child may have been raised a poor relation, but apparently aristocratic refusal to be disobeyed was genetic. "Now I'm sure you have more important things to do, Father, than sit here making this poor man nervous."

Pagiter blanched. "It's no problem, Admiral, I assure you."

Thrawn knew human vocal tones well enough to hear he was lying. "Thelea is correct, I do have other duties I could be attending to. I will check on her progress again later. And if there are any issues," and he gave Thelea a side-eyed look as he said it, "you may of course notify me at once."

"Yes, Admiral." The medic was already turning, activating an FX-7 medical unit to assist him. "Thelea, I'm going to remove the support frame from your arm."

She nodded, and while it was too faint for most humans to notice, Thrawn caught the flash of unease cross her features and then be quickly suppressed. "All right." She looked back at him, and after a faint press of her fingers against his, deliberately withdrew her hand. "Father, I thought you had somewhere to be?" The medic flinched, no doubt shocked anyone would take such a flippant tone with the Grand Admiral, even his own offspring.

Given what she'd sacrificed, and how many years of unavoidable but admittedly poor parenting he still had to make up for, he decided to let it pass.


	4. Chapter 4

Pellaeon would have expected the Rebels to attempt to hold Wayland, once they had gone to so much trouble to take it. Word of the rout at Bilbringi must have reached whatever task force they'd sent, though, because except for the still-enraged natives, the planet had been abandoned. The native uprising was quickly contained (the Army units seemed to take Covell's death on the planet personally, and without the real culprit, C'baoth, available, they could vent their frustrations on his 'subjects') but initial reports about the condition of the mountain storehouse were disheartening, at least to him.

"The cloning chamber is a complete loss," he said, still not quite able to believe it as the shuttle began its descent from the _Chimaera_ into the atmosphere. "Several of the other storerooms have been damaged, they haven't been able to determine how badly or what may have been taken. At least there doesn't seem to be any sign of C'baoth."

"And the native uprising?" Thrawn at least was back to his cool, near-unreadable self. He even had a shadow again, though Pellaeon had thought there was some disagreement on that point. The scout–Commander Thelea–was not wearing her helmet now, but she was in the rest of the black armor and now that he realized it was there it was impossible not to notice the lightsaber on her belt. She was sitting quietly in the back of the passenger compartment, the glowing eyes half-closed. Her left arm, with its newly-attached prosthetic, curled at an odd angle across her lap, and he wondered sympathetically if it was a strange feeling.

"Contained, sir. There is still some skirmishing northeast of the city, but Colonel Wegg doesn't believe they can hold out much longer. Though . . . ." Unwittingly, he realized he was looking back towards Commander Thelea. "There are some sightings of what might be Noghri among them."

"Indeed." Thrawn's lip twisted, just a bit. "If possible, we should take one alive." He saw the look on Pellaeon's face, and there was a slight sound that might have been a snort from the back of the cabin. "I realize that may be difficult with Noghri, but the attempt should be made all the same. I will of course understand if it's impossible. Escape, however, cannot be permitted."

"Yes, sir." Pellaeon, for his part, thought it might be best to deal with any Noghri from as far a distance as was feasible, and as overwhelmingly as possibly. "You still plan to inspect the mountain personally?"

Thrawn cocked a blue-black brow. "It would seem rather pointless to have the shuttle turn back now, Captain."

"And at least you finally showed a micron of sense and put on the body armor." Thelea didn't sound the least bit worried about taking that tone with a Grand Admiral, relative or not.

Thrawn turned just enough to look back to where she was sitting. "Would you have permitted me to leave the _Chimaera_ if I hadn't?"

"No." And she sounded utterly unapologetic about it. "And I'm a Jedi, or so my Master says. I have ways."

"And I still have access to ysalamiri," Thrawn countered, but Pellaeon thought he sounded less irritated than amused.

"Fine. Then I'd have resorted to asking just what Mother would think of your carelessly risking your life for no good reason when so many people are depending on you."

Thrawn paused, just perceptibly, and Pellaeon thought he might rebuke her. Instead he simply said, "Your mother would know I had too long a list of examples of times she was less than careful of her own safety for her to challenge me on that point."

"I'll take your word for it. That is I would if you'd tell me more than one thing per standard year about her."

Thrawn smiled faintly. "How long until landing, Captain?"

"There he goes again," Thelea said, though Pellaeon suspected she was speaking to the universe or the shuttle bulkhead as much as to him. "Even by our standards, Father, you're ridiculously taciturn."

Pellaeon glanced at Thelea , but Thrawn ignored her and he opted to do the same. "Ten minutes, Admiral."

"Excellent." There was a slight sound from Thelea's direction again as he said it, and both men turned. "You have something to add?"

Thelea's eyes were closed, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips, and Pellaeon had an eerie reminder of C'baoth. "Oh, nothing," she said. "Only someone's waiting for us planetside."

Pellaeon frowned, as it seemed a strange thing to say when there were of course numerous people waiting for them. Thrawn, though, merely shook his head. "I suppose there's no avoiding it."

"Better now than later." Thelea studied her lightsaber. "She's not best pleased with you. With me, either, come to that, but as far as she's concerned this is your fault, with overtones of 'again.'"

Thrawn had that thin-lipped look that Pellaeon had learned to dread almost as much as Lord Vader going perfectly still. "Your Master had best be careful how far she lets her . . . displeasure show."

"I'll stop her if she tries to hit you. Mostly because I don't want you two killing each other." She looked up and smiled, though there was a hesitant edge. "Mother wouldn't want that, you know."

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure," Thrawn said, turning away again to look towards the pilot and the displays as their descent angle changed just perceptibly. "If that fight ever did come about, it's entirely possible your mother would have laid a wager on it. And I truly don't know which of us she'd expect to win."

"If I might ask, sir?" Pellaeon knew he probably, on many levels, did not want to know. But it would probably be better to find out.

"My Master," Thelea said, before Thrawn could speak. "My mother's teacher before me. She and Father don't like each other."

"We do not dislike each other," Thrawn said patiently. "We have certain philosophical differences."

"They blame each other for my mother," Thelea said flatly, still speaking to Pellaeon. "It distracts them both from how much they blame themselves."

"Ah . . . ." Pellaeon wondered if he was ever going to adapt to Thelea's habit of casually discussing the Grand Admiral as if he weren't present. As if she ought to be speaking that way about him anywhere!

"Only stating the facts. You'll see, Captain." Thelea's glowing eyes closed again and she leaned back, still cradling that new left arm across her body. "In fact, you should probably just keep a safe distance back and watch the show."

Mount Tantiss and the city surrounding it looked far different than Pellaeon remembered it from . . . almost a year ago now, he realized. If any progress had been made on repairing the house Rukh had destroyed on the Admiral's orders, it had been undone and the damage doubled. He wasn't sure how much was the result of the Rebel commandos and how much was their own Army's doing, but most of the city square he remembered had been reduced to rubble. There were stormtroopers and ground troops, and the square was currently under the watchful guard of one of the towering AT-ATs.

As was a single figure kneeling on the paving stones. Pellaeon couldn't tell if the being was male or female as it wore dark blue robes with a hood pulled over its head, though the slight frame suggested a woman. With her hands folded in front of her instead of on her head, she clearly considered herself to be waiting, rather than a prisoner, and from their stances, the troopers near her weren't entirely sure, either. As they followed their own stormtrooper escort down the shuttle ramp, she rose in a single fluid motion and the troopers around her turned uneasily, as if not quite certain where they should be pointing their blasters.

The woman, and Pellaeon could see now he'd been correct, seemed supremely at ease as she walked directly towards them. The stormtroopers ahead of them moved to close ranks, but her fingers flicked briefly at each of them and they both paused, wavering uncertainly, and she barged past. Her hood slipped back, and to his surprise Pellaeon saw a woman probably close to his own age or even a bit older, with care-lined features and hair that was mostly still dark despite her apparent age, save a bright-white streak at her temple. Her eyes were dark, too, and they were fixed with terrifying ferocity on the Grand Admiral

Automatically, Pellaeon reached out, but a hand clamped hard on his arm. He turned and a reprimand died on his lips as Thelea's glowing eyes fixed on him. "Master Aleishia won't hurt him," the other said. "Even if I weren't here to stop her, she wouldn't."

"She seems quite angry," and Pellaeon realized he was feeling the absence of the ysalamiri rather acutely. "You're sure?"

Thelea shook her head, and there was something almost sad in her expression. "Even if he weren't our only hope, and she didn't know that, no. She won't hurt him. Because my mother was her pupil and her friend, and my mother loved him." She sighed, and he noticed in spite of her words her hand was resting near her lightsaber. "However, she is going to insult him quite a bit, so be prepared."

The woman came to a stop inches from Thrawn and looked up at him without any sign of fear or even respect. "So, Mitth'raw'nuruodo," she said, or Pellaeon thought that was what she said, "what have you done to my apprentice?"

" _My_ daughter," and there was no mistaking either the emphasis Thrawn placed on the first word or how the troopers near enough to hear him twitched and turned at the second, looking at the dark-armored figure beside Pellaeon, "is, as you can see, here, and fine."

"For your race's warped definition of fine, perhaps." She spoke with a pure Coruscanti accent, someone clearly of birth and education–but then, wasn't she a Jedi Master? "Missing a limb is fine? Nearly dying is fine? All because you couldn't even trust your own bodyguard? Is that famous mind slipping that you failed to notice the person charged with your safety intended to destroy you?"

"To be fair, Master, I'm not dead." Thelea sounded quite matter-of-fact, and Pellaeon noticed she had aligned herself at Thrawn's shoulder, a quiet position of support. "The assassin is. Father's uninjured. Therefore, no harm done."

The Jedi did not look mollified. In fact, she didn't even look at Thelea. Her gaze was still fixed on Thrawn, and if the glowing eyes or the radical difference in their heights disturbed her, she gave no outward sign. "Are you going to force me to stand back and watch as another apprentice dies?"

Thrawn stiffened and his fists clenched, though Pellaeon thought less as if he were going to strike the woman before him than as if he were digging his nails into his own flesh. "Lisetha chose her own path. Thelea is very much like her. Do not lay the blame for either at my feet, Jedi."

"I would have said Thelea takes entirely after you," Aleishia retorted. "Neither of you have the sense the Force gave especially-dim-witted gundarks when it comes to self-preservation." More disturbing than the insult was the fact that Pellaeon had to quash the instinct to nod in agreement! "Fortunately she lacks your arrogant inability to accept that sometimes things do not follow plans to the letter. Unfortunately this time she was the one protecting you from that arrogance and it very nearly got her killed. Will you finally learn? Or next time will it be her arm again? A leg? Or–"

"You go to far," and Thrawn actually sounded as if he were struggling to control his temper. "If she risks her life, it's because she chose the same path as her mother, the one _you_ placed her on. If her blood is on anyone's hands–"

" _Shir'akh!"_ Or that as what it sounded like to Pellaeon, at any rate. Thelea's voice had a rasping, shrill tone to it that sounded downright rude. Thrawn and Aleishia were both staring at her, Aleishia mildly stunned and Thrawn's expression . . . Pellaeon would almost have called it proud, in a strange way. "You're embarrassing yourselves and me," she continued in Basic. "Father, she was only worried. Master, Father is right, I'm fine. One arm, more or less, is a small price to pay to prevent what almost happened. And you're both putting us all in danger by insisting on having this argument now while this area is only technically secure."

Aleishia blinked. "I would hardly call losing a limb a minor inconvenience, apprentice." But there was a strange note of respect to her voice. "And yes. I was worried."

Thrawn looked slightly less mollified, but not by much. "I did not mean to lose my temper. However," and he fixed his daughter with a glare Pellaeon was very grateful was not directed at him, "Mitth'ele'arana, if you take that tone with me again, I will have you shipped back to the _Chimaera_ and confined to quarters."

"It's a bit late for that sort of parenting," Thelea retorted, but she bowed her head.

"You forget your place. You may be an High Councilor's daughter, but you are also an Imperial officer–"

"How many times do I have to say I've resigned my commission before it takes?"

Thrawn didn't even pause. "And I am Supreme Commander of the Empire. You may not address me or your Master as though you were speaking to unruly servants. And where did you learn that tone of voice anyway?"

"Fine, provided you're not acting like them." She was looking around the rubble-strewn square, her fingers tapping restlessly on the hilt of her lightsaber. "And I learned it being spoken to that way. It does tend to stick in one's memory. Master . . . ."

"I feel it, too." Aleishia's hand had vanished under her robe and Pellaeon tensed even as he reminded himself that _these_ Jedi certainly appeared to be on their side. "That way–"

There was a dual _snap-hiss_ of lightsabers igniting in almost the same instant a blaster bolt flashed out of the rubble. Thelea's red blade spun and the bolt deflected away before the stormtroopers could even react. Pellaeon had his sidearm out before he realized he was reaching for it, and saw Thrawn had drawn his. Thelea stood between her father and the square, her lightsaber up in an at-ready stance. Beside her Aleishia had adopted a similar posture, a scintillating bluish-white blade activated and humming a counterpoint to Thelea's crimson saber. Pellaeon had an eerie sense of deja vu, remembering the Clone Wars with Jedi generals and commanders. Even the troopers' armor was much the same.

 _And some of them, no doubt, are clones again_.

Thrawn was scanning the rubble field, tall enough to see easily over the stormtroopers who'd belatedly closed ranks. "Major, when he fires again, triangulate the location."

"You don't want a squad sent in immediately, sir?" The trooper's filtered voice didn't give any real hint of his thoughts, but Pellaeon thought he caught just the slightest trace of confusion.

"I'd prefer we see how many of them are really there," Thrawn said, in that deliberately-patient tone. "If we rush in there without establishing that, and the first shooter was merely a lure to draw the troopers away–"

"With all due respect, Father, can we save the nursery lessons for another time?" Thelea was edging forward, her saber still up and at the ready. "In any case, I sense two of them up there." She nodded, but not overtly, towards the rubble pile.

"At least one non-human," Aleishia added. "I would suggest we move under cover." Pellaeon was about to concur when another bolt, this one from slightly farther, shot out and was deflected once again by Thelea's blade.

"Hold on a moment." Thelea was still scanning the field of rubble. "I'm beginning to suspect something . . .Master, cover me."

"What do you have in mind?" The skeptical tone in the Jedi Master's voice was not, Pellaeon thought, reassuring.

"I have a theory." She edged out into the ranks of the stormtroopers. "Father," she said over her shoulder, "how much do you trust that armor if I'm wrong?"

"Admiral!" Pellaeon could tolerate a great deal, but what he realized she was suggesting . . . .

Thrawn, of course, didn't even hesitate. "Assuming they are unable to target as specifically as a head shot, I am more than adequately protected. You, however–"

" _My_ armor's fine, and lightsaber, remember?" But her blade was now angled down, and her gaze was still turned toward the rubble piles.

"I also remember what happened on Azuke," Thrawn said dryly. Pellaeon assumed it was somewhere in the Unknown Regions. "As I recall your lightsaber did you very little good then."

"Then I'll just have to hope you can still shoot a sandflea off a bantha's back at two hundred meters without singeing a hair, won't I?" But there was something in her expression, a tiny quirk of her lips, that said it was more than a flippant remark. And _still_? He had more or less believed the troopers who had been in Thrawn's squad during that Tatooine art hunt that the Admiral could in fact hold his own in a firefight, but precision sharpshooter? He added that to the long list of things he hoped his commander would someday explain.

Then he saw the wry look on the Jedi Master's face, exasperated, even, and when she realized he was looking at him, it became almost pitying. She shook her head, and he could read the message in her eyes: _Don't even bother asking._

"Go left, Father," and Thelea was already moving right, out from between the troopers, putting a significant gap between herself and the Admiral. Thrawn moved forward as well, needing only a narrow-eyed look to make the stormtroopers give way. She was edging across the paving stones, eyes turned toward the rubble where the shots had come from.

Pellaeon nearly jumped out of his skin as another shot came flying towards Thelea's armored back. The Jedi Master, though, moved with that supernatural speed he remembered from the Clone Wars, the silvery blade slashing down and deflecting the bolt almost before Thelea could turn. Half the stormtrooper squad turned, too, weapons coming to bear on the other rubble boundary around the edge of the square.

Thelea, for her part, only nodded grimly. "Father, by any chance do the Noghri know who I am?"

"Rukh. Any he told. Any who've been close enough to notice your scent." Thrawn had that strange, self-deprecating note to his voice again. "Rukh knew who you were the day you and Lieutenant Caelin sneaked aboard the _Victorious_ to see me."

Pellaeon knew he probably should be focusing on the larger immediate picture, but the name, given how recently he'd heard it, caught his attention. "Caelin? The _Defiance_ 's captain?" He saw the narrow-eyed look from Thrawn too late to keep quiet.

"Yes." Thelea, for her part, sounded suddenly very tense. "We served together until Endor. It's a long story."

"The short version of which is you do not mention my daughter to him, Captain," and that was Thrawn's tone reserved for absolute, unquestionable orders.

Pellaeon flinched, and decided it was safer not to speculate. "What does the Noghri knowing your identity have to do with our current situation?"

"Consider their targeting decisions," Thelea said.

"And consider, Captain, if the Noghri wish not only to assassinate me, but cause me pain first, what greater harm could a killer do a father than to cut down his child in front of him?" Thrawn sounded as clinical, as cold, as ever.

Pellaeon remembered the look on the Grand Admiral's face as Thelea crumpled to the deck, Rukh's poison spreading through her. And thought again, what if it were Mynar and he was the one being targeted? Death was easily preferable to seeing his own child killed before his eyes.

Thelea was moving farther away from them towards the center of the square. Another bolt came from the front, and she ducked and rolled instead of deflecting this one. As she came upright, she re-ignited the lightsaber in her right hand, and then a second blade sprang to life in her left, this one a soft yellow-gold color. The red blade deflected a shot from the front at the same instant she spun the gold blade behind her back, blocking another bolt from the third shooter.

"They're coordinating," Thrawn said, though his tone was distracted and reminded Pellaeon more of when the Grand Admiral spoke of artworks or old battles, and he was watching Thelea as if it were a dance performance. It was, in fact, a graceful kind of dance, the blades sweeping through the air like glowing, deadly fans. Thelea was too light on her feet even for a dancer, and Pellaeon wondered if that was another ability the Force granted to Jedi. Thrawn, still in that contemplative tone, said, "Major, track the comm signal and refocus jamming."

Pellaeon realized that he'd lost track of the older Jedi, and when he looked for Aleishia, he realized she was gone. "Sir?"

"She knows what she's doing, Captain," and Thrawn sounded less grudging than resigned. Thelea was edging closer to the rubble, forcing the shooters in front of her to angle farther and farther downward. It was the shots from behind that were a greater concern. The troopers were triangulating their fire on the single shooter, but a bolt in their direction shattered paving stones near the Admiral's feet and Pellaeon jumped. Thrawn didn't even take a step back.

Thelea leapt upwards, so suddenly Pellaeon almost lost track of where she was going. The stormtroopers checked their fire as she landed on the shattered remains of a pillar and once again brought up the red blade to deflect a shot. Now, however, the assailants were forced to fire at a steep angle, and the bolts Thelea was deflecting were no longer ricocheting at random. Instead, Pellaeon realized belatedly, she was choosing the angle of return.

And her intent became clear as the free-standing wall of a building, left up in one of those freakish quirks of bombardment, wobbled violently, shaking down broken bits of duracrete and plaster. She looked over her shoulder and swept her red saber in an arc, pointing to the wall.

"Target that structure and fire!" Thrawn did not have to add any warnings about hitting Thelea, given how the troopers aimed low and around her, precision-firing at the base of the wall. She crouched low as the wall began to crumble, and then her red saber was spinning again, deflecting a burst of covering fire as two figures, one perhaps two-thirds the height of the other, came bolting out from hiding as the wall collapsed into the rubble. Thelea kept the red blade spinning, stopping the blaster bolts, and Pellaeon saw her reach back and fling something from her left hand. The gold saber's blade flared to life in midflight and, guided by an invisible grip, the Jedi's weapon arced through the air.

The two snipers never had time to duck. They didn't even have time scream.

Deactivating while still aloft, the hilt of the saber dropped back into Thelea's outstretched hand. Then she was picking her way down the mountain of debris like a child playing skiphop, wearing just the faintest hint of a smile. "One Noghri, one human. Unfortunately, those two seemed unwilling to cooperate in the 'taking alive' part." she said, in a matter-of-fact tone so like the Grand Admiral's Pellaeon almost laughed. Especially at how Thrawn did not seem to note the resemblance.

"I said I recognized the difficulty," and Thrawn at least didn't sound angry, though Pellaeon had learned long since that wasn't always an ideal indicator. "A little more effort on your part, however, would not have gone amiss."

"No need." Thelea pointed behind them.

When Pellaeon turned, he saw the older Jedi standing in what until recently had been the front room (and probably more than a bit of the upper storeys) of one of the houses. Kneeling before her, the silver-blue lightsaber blade humming at his throat, was a gray, cloaked figure Pellaeon recognized all too well as a typical Noghri commando. Aleishia looked up at them, and nodded graciously.

"She's holding him with the Force," Thelea said, and there might have been just the slightest trace of smug satisfaction, but an aside look from Thrawn and it vanished. "But she would like to request assistance. Binders, and weapons on stun?"

"Major, take the Noghri into custody and return him to the _Chimaera_." Thrawn gestured, and the stormtrooper squad commander and two of his men hurried to relieve Aleishia of her prisoner. "The interrogation can wait until after we have completed the inspection of the warehouse." He looked back at Thelea, and said something in that alien language. Thelea gave a dutiful-looking, contrite nod and Thrawn turned away. Pellaeon, however, was still looking, and when she noticed he was, she gave him a small, conspiratorial smile that left him blinking, uncertain of what he'd seen before she turned away again, to all appearances waiting obediently for her Master to rejoin them.

One thing Pellaeon was certain of, though, as he followed the Grand Admiral towards the mountain and heard the Jedi fall in behind them, however remarkable her mother might have been, there was no question whose side of the family Thelea took after.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: This story has contained some references to events between the end of "TIE Fighter: Command Decisions" and the start of this one. While I am planning to begin posting the start of "TIE Fighter: Resurrection", I will also be working on several other stories that cover both events in the intervening years ("Shadow Dancing" will show a bit of Thelea and Aleishia's training, "Ronin" will go into more detail about why Captain Niriz is Thelea's favorite surrogate uncle and why she's so confident in her father's shooting skills, and "Defiance" will explain how Rurik's career has taken off) and at least one to tell the story of the mission Parck, Niriz, and Thelea are off on at the end of this chapter ("Hidden Fortress", and if you can't tell . . . I'm not a big fan of Admiral Daala.)

To clarify the epilogue at the end of this chapter-you may recall I said that "Resurrection" will be a crossover (though set almost entirely in the GFFA and with no canon characters from the other universe actually making the trip.) "Command Decisions" featured several hints, both in the type of villains, themes, and even an episode title drop. The epilogue here should make it more obvious. And as people who've read my notes have probably gathered, I'm a big fan of TV Tropes, even if it ruins your life. So remember, while there is a trope called "Put On A Bus", remember that there's also one called "The Bus Came Back."

Mopping up at Wayland was not going to be a quick process. The examination of the cloning chamber alone showed that if anything the initial reports had understated the damage. The Rebels had done a thorough job, shattering the cloning tanks and destroying much of the supporting electronics. Of their mad Jedi clone, there was no sign, but there was evidence of a lightsaber battle within the throne room. Some effort had clearly been made to get into the other storerooms, including those that Imperial crews that not yet had a chance to investigate, but the rapid withdrawal the loss at Bilbringi had prompted meant they did not appear have made any greater progress than Imperial teams. And of course the schematics for the cloaking device were long gone and they seemed to have been more interested in destroying the cloning cylinders than stealing the technology.

Thelea, all things considered, was pleased.

Her quarters on the _Chimaera_ were small but adequate, reminiscent of those she'd had on the _Executor_. Here, though, she did not have a shared 'fresher, and there was no set schedule of shifts she was required to adhere to, other than being ready to respond to a request from her father, and a standing order to report for a medical exam to check on how she was adapting to her new arm. She would push _that_ as far back as she could, as there was no sign of infection and so far the hand had performed much as her own flesh and blood limb had. Still, there were the cosmetic issues.

She set aside the mug of caf she'd been nursing (Navy caf, the one thing she craved when training or on missions in the Unknown Regions, but she'd accepted her father's as-usual unassailable logic that carrying a supply would be far too distinctive a trait for someone operating on the fringes) and stared at her gloved hands. She already wore gloves mostly out of habit–TIE pilots who lost their craft and survived the experience rarely had time to put on gloves with seals, so she was accustomed to going about with her hands covered. It had also been one more small patch of her distinctive blue skin covered, though outside a cockpit there was no way to hide her face and eyes. Even in the Unknown Regions, where her species was hardly a mystery in many systems, it was often better to minimize attention. Now, though, she deliberately pulled both gloves off and held her hands out in front of her.

It was bizarre. Downright unnerving, really. Synthflesh was very convincing, warm or cool to the touch, fine lines like real skin, even the smooth nails looked correct and as if they could grow, except her left hand and forearm were decidedly the wrong color. The tech had been limited not only by time, but by the available prostheses, where being female was as much a limitation as being alien. There were far more to chose from for larger male frames. Her new hand and arm were more or less the same size and proportion as her natural arm, but the false skin was an unnerving pale whiteish-pink color that was perfectly ordinary on the human range of fleshtones, but completely alien to her eyes. She placed both hands flat on the small table, looking at the right, with its normal powder-blue hue, and the strange, pinkish beige limb that was now her left hand.

They both flexed when her brain commanded it, both sets of fingers curled or stretched when she commanded, and yet somehow the human-tone hand seemed a foreign thing attached, but not part of her yet. When there was time, or when she had cause to return to the fortress on Nirauan, she could look into having the synthflesh tinted to match her own natural skin, but for the moment . . . .

Her door chimed, and she pulled her left glove back on. "Enter."

She knew before the door slid open that it was her Master, and she didn't even need the Force to note the distaste in Aleishia's eyes as she took in the bare, sparsely-furnished berth. "The Grand Admiral is requesting our presence," she said without preamble and almost without irony. "He hasn't called for you?"

"More efficient to send you." Thelea picked up her other glove and slid it on. "Besides, he's still feeling guilty about my arm. You know how he deals with that sort of thing."

"Better than you know." Aleishia grimaced. "He doesn't feel guilty, or at least that's not the worst of it. He's afraid. He made an error, and it nearly killed you. If you hadn't been there, it would have killed him."

"Well, he can't be afraid," Thelea said, suppressing the shudder that thought prompted. "He's the only commander we've ever had who doesn't second-guess himself or worry so much about potential losses he loses before he starts a battle. Or worse, thinks he's invincible and will let bodies pile up until he proves it. We're so close to taking back the Core now, he can't afford to worry about making mistakes. It's not about me or him. It's about the Empire."

Aleishia's lips pressed thin, in an expression Thelea knew meant she had an opinion, but thought better of expressing it. "We had better not keep him waiting." There wasn't even any attempt to hide the sarcasm, but then if she hadn't allowed it in her voice Thelea would have sensed it. She tried to keep eavesdropping on her Master's emotions to a minimum, but some things Aleishia couldn't have hidden if she wanted.

Thelea automatically straightened her jacket as she stood, a plain black officer's tunic without rank plates and with a single cylinder tucked in one of the pockets. It was comfortable to be back in the familiar cut and even the heavy fabric she'd used to complain about felt natural. The lightsaber at her belt, though, felt decidedly strange on an Imperial uniform, even if wearing it had become second nature in the last few years. She saw the looks, too, as they walked through the _Chimaera'_ s passageways, eyes on them and quickly averted, voices lowered until they had gone by. Strangely, though, she sensed none of the hostility or resentment she remembered from the _Executor_. True, Thrawn was Admiral here, and like the _Admonitor_ 's crew they weren't completely unfamiliar with her species. That explained a lack of anti-alien bias, but not the strange aura of . . . respect? Curiosity she'd been used to, as well, but this was more like fascination and while she'd never understood the difference before, she did now and it was giving her the chills.

After the third group of crew had respectfully stepped aside and waited, surreptitiously watching until they had past, Thelea was starting to add "annoyed" to chilled. _I think I liked being 'that alien female' better. Jedi alien is apparently too strange for them. Even if it saved the Grand Admiral's life._

 _It's not the Jedi part._ Even silently, Aleishia could sound so drolly amused it was infuriating. _Even if your father hadn't openly called you his in front of a squad of stormtroopers, by now what happened on the bridge would be all over the ship. Not your saving him, but his response. You're the Admiral's daughter. They're curious._

 _How would that tell them anything? It's not as if he . . ._ cried _or something._ The entire notion would have been revolting even if he weren't a Grand Admiral. Her people simply didn't do that sort of thing. _He'd have cared as much about anyone who was willing to die to save him._

 _If you believe that, Apprentice, you still have a great deal to learn._

 _You apparently still have a great deal to learn about my father, Master._

Thelea noted that her command cylinder apparently worked on the inner door now, as it slid aside and admitted them immediately. Her father barely glanced up from the holo display, which was tactical, not artistic, now. Captain Pellaeon was beside him, and Thelea remembered something her mother's apparition had said about limpets. Pellaeon certainly believed in the Grand Admiral, though he didn't seem hesitant about voicing objections to him, either. It would probably be a few years yet before he was quite as blindly accepting of anything Thrawn came up with as Parck. Or maybe he never would. Maybe that was why, when the time came, Thrawn had chosen the _Chimaera_ and left the _Admonitor_ to hold down the Unknown Regions.

"Excellent. We've been reviewing immediate plans for the campaign," Thrawn said, gesturing for them to join him. Thelea stood to his left and Aleishia stayed just a bit farther away. Thelea felt the flinch from her Master, even if the Jedi didn't let the physical reaction show, and mentally shrugged. "The Rebel fleet will be some time in regrouping from their failed attack at Bilbringi. They will expect an all-out assault and a push to the Core on our part, to take advantage of both their reduction in arms and the resultant political fallout." The thin, humorless smile would have sent shivers down the spine of almost anyone, even without the effect of his eyes. "Our intelligence resources may not be as extensive within the Imperial palace as they were, but reports indicate that Admiral Ackbar's star may have permanently fallen after this latest failure."

Thelea knew gloating over an opponent's fall was neither a very Jedi-like nor the way of an honorable warrior, and she knew her father felt no personal vindictiveness towards the Mon Calamari admiral. He was simply an obstacle to be overcome. But her father had not been at Endor. She had, and she could feel the same vindictive satisfaction from Pellaeon, too. Even having a small part in bringing down the commander who'd caused the death of the _Executor_ felt gratifying. "Since they're expecting an all-out push, what are we doing instead?"

Thrawn frowned, and she heard Pellaeon's sharp intake of breath. Aleishia was smothering a smile, though. "To be honest, sir," and Pellaeon was clearly trying to salvage Thrawn's dramatic reveal for him, "I don't see why now would not be the time to make a final push on the Core worlds. On Imperial Center itself, even."

"Because while we have the strategic advantage, and our numbers have improved, we are not unscathed from this engagement ourselves," Thrawn said patiently. "And the Rebels have not utilized all their resources. With the destruction of the cloning facilities we must husband our resources more carefully and look for other means of expanding them, and we should seek to eliminate some of theirs before the Rebels can call them into play."

He touched a control, and a portion of the galactic map enlarged. Thelea heard the sharp intake of breath from Pellaeon at the same moment she felt a quickly-suppressed surge of alarm from her Master. She studied the star system displayed, and the scrolling list of assets. "The Hapans? I didn't think they cared about galactic politics."

"Their new ruler, Queen Teneniel Djo, and her husband are allied with the Rebels. Thus far, they've limited their forces to defense of their own worlds, but that seems likely to change." Thrawn was smiling again, the sort of satisfied smile that would make his enemies very nervous, if they were ever present to see it. "We will need to demonstrate the error of their ways, or risk making an assault on the Core worlds only to find Hapan Battle Dragons at our backs." His expression had a wry edge. "Not an insurmountable problem, as they are a predictable people, but more potential damage than I would prefer to deal with."

"I saw what Hapan ships could do against pirates back in the early days of the Empire," Pellaeon said, and Thelea didn't need the Force to know this was not the plan he'd been hoping to hear.

"They were never very fond of Jedi, either," Aleishia said. "Insular, and very matriarchal." Thelea didn't miss the raised-eyebrow look that was her father's only response.

Pellaeon did. "Even if the _Stormhawk_ were ready to return to action, I'd prefer to have a few more Destroyers if we're going to confront the Hapans directly."

"As would I, Captain," and Thrawn touched another control. "Which is why we are both waiting until the fleet has effected repairs, and why the Emperor's storehouse, damaged through it might be, still has some useful weapons to provide us." Another segment of the map replaced the Hapes Cluster, this one a massive black hole cluster that going by the intake of breath from Pellaeon he recognized as well. "It seems that the late Grand Moff Tarkin was given a place to work on further projects as his Death Star was such a successful notion." Thelea bit down on a laugh, and she heard Pellaeon do the same.

Aleishia, though, only arched her eyebrows. "Hoping to find a prototype superlaser? Or something even nastier? That isn't normally your style, Mitth'raw'nuruodo."

Thrawn looked less than pleased, and Thelea cast the thought in her Master's direction, _Is it really necessary to bait him? Mother wouldn't approve, you know. And in any case it's my prerogative._

Pellaeon, meanwhile, seemed determined to defuse the situation yet again. "If I might ask, sir, that's the second time I've heard Master Aleishia address you as . . . as . . . well, that name. And I believe you called Commander Thelea something similar."

"Mitth'ele'arana," Thrawn said, and he looked at her, the amusement in his eyes obvious at least to a fellow Chiss. "Thank you for _not_ attempting to pronounce it, or my own fullname, Captain. Our names seem to be exceptionally difficult for most humans and the mispronunciations can be unintentionally offensive. Or entertaining." Thelea could see her father was actually fighting down a laugh. "Pronounced improperly, my daughter's name can inadvertently sound like our language's word for a small tunneling rodent that lives in the high snow pack on our world."

"And believe me, I've heard worse when other species try to say it," Thelea said. "But those are our formal names. Among our own people, our core names-Thelea, Thrawn from Mitth'raw'nuruodo–are for personal use among friends and intimates, not among the chain of command."

Pellaeon looked rather taken aback. "So we have been referring to you both by the equivalent of a human's given name?" In fact, judging by the sense of embarrassment she could feel glowing like a small sun, he might be well beyond taken aback and into mortified.

"Don't worry, Captain," Thrawn said, once again reaching for the controls on his command chair. "I don't expect you to learn the proper pronunciation of my name now, and I shan't start calling you Gilad."

Thelea couldn't help it. The look on Pellaeon's face beggared description. She covered her mouth, but the laugh escaped before she could completely smother it. She did at least have the presence of mind to switch languages before saying, "Father, be kind! You're torturing the poor Captain."

Thrawn merely gave her a small smile, before returning to the topic at hand. "As it happens, I would not be completely averse to finding a functioning prototype of the Death Stare, or similar weapons which could be put to future use." He glanced at Thelea and then at Aleishia, and Thelea understood in the same instant she felt her Master grasp his meaning–the creature Mother had warned them about, the one that would have to be destroyed. "For now, however, my immediate interest is the ships Tarkin left to protect the installation. Newly constructed, fully crewed, with complete fighter and ground-assault complements." As he spoke, he brought up the schematics, and once again Thelea couldn't demonstrate proper decorum, and she saw her own disbelieving glee reflected in Pellaeon's eyes. Even Aleishia looked as if she couldn't quite believe they had such good luck within their grasp.

" _Four_ Imperial II-class Destroyers?" Pellaeon sounded as if he weren't sure he trusted his own eyes. "Sitting there for the taking . . . ."

"Full crews? TIE fighters, walkers, everything intact?" Thelea tried to add up the numbers. "Tens of thousands of crew, even if they weren't fully manned . . . it almost makes up for the _Executor_. And we don't have to train any of them."

"What's the catch?" Aleishia asked, but even she didn't sound as archly superior as she might otherwise have.

"The 'catch', as you put it, is the installation is located within the Kessel Maw," Thrawn said. "There is a safe way of navigating the black hole cluster, but it is not an easy route. And there are no means of direct communication. As such, it is unlikely they have any notion of events that have transpired since their last communication with the Grand Moff. As such, they may require a certain amount of convincing before agreeing to a reassignment." He turned to Thelea. "That is where you come in."

"If these are hardcore Tarkin followers, an alien female who was a lieutenant commander when last their systems got an update hardly seems like the ideal person to send," Thelea said. "Though that is _not_ a suggestion you go yourself."

"The _Chimaera_ will be preparing for the Hapes campaign," her father agreed. "Of course, with the unfortunate loss of both Master C'baoth and the potential for replacement, we may be facing some difficulties with certain strategies." The sideways look he gave Aleishia was not lost on anyone.

The Jedi Master looked away for a long minute, and abruptly her thoughts were as closed to Thelea as a duracrete wall. "I will assist in coordination in a very small way," she said finally. "Not on a grand scale, and I will not attempt battle meditations to enhance your entire fleet. I haven't yet fallen to the Dark, Mitth'raw'nuruodo, but like any Jedi, I have my limits. I don't especially want to test them at my age."

Thrawn stared at her for a long minute, but Aleishia met his gaze unwaveringly. "Very well. I had hoped you would understand the necessity. There is another matter as well, one which we can discuss later, in private. That can wait until after Hapes."

Pellaeon looked less than at ease about this new strategy, and in some ways Thelea sympathized. _I'm not sure Pellaeon is entirely comfortable with having you help in_ any _way, Master. Try not to antagonize Father and make the situation worse._

 _Don't worry about our good captain, Apprentice._ Aleishia's mental voice was as serene as her smile. _I'll have him eating out of my hand by the time you return._

 _That was a mental image I did_ not _need, so I hope you're speaking figuratively._

 _Oh, I don't know,_ and while there were overtones of teasing, Thelea also had a distinct reminder why her Master had left the Jedi Order. _He seems like a gentleman, and the moustache is rather dashing._

 _Suddenly navigating a black hole cluster looks terrifically inviting._ "So how am I going to persuade whomever this commander in the Maw is that I'm telling the truth?"

"You will not be doing the persuading. You will be there to make sure the commander does not decide to do anything rash to those who are." Thrawn activated the comm. "Lieutenant, is that holonet channel I requested ready?"

"Ready to open channel on your command," said the voice from the bridge.

"Do so." Thrawn turned toward the empty section of the command room. There was a brief flicker from the projectors, and the holo resolved itself into two officers, one a Vice Admiral and one a Captain. Both saluted Thrawn, who returned the salutation with a grave nod. "Admiral Parck, Captain Niriz. Thank you for joining us."

"Of course, Grand Admiral," Parck said. "And may I say, I am pleased to see both you and Commander Thelea are unscathed."

"Commander Thelea's concerns were well-founded, but as you see, we are both perfectly fine," Thrawn said. He looked expectantly at her, and she gave a proper salute. She'd remind them about the resigning thing later. Parck had been present when she'd thrown her commander's rank plates at her father's head, but he had never commented on the situation.

"It was a near thing, Admiral Parck, but you know how stubborn Father can be." The smile she gave the other captain was a great deal less formal. "It's good to see you again, Captain Niriz."

"And you," the elderly human said, not without affection. "Staying out of trouble, young lady?"

"Keeping my father out of trouble, which usually puts me neck-deep in it. You know how it is."

"I certainly do," but he gave Thrawn an apologetic glance.

Thrawn, for his part, looked unfazed by the exchange. "Allow me to present Captain Gilad Pellaeon of my flagship _Chimaera._ Captain, Vice-Admiral Voss Parck and Captain Dagon Niriz of the _Admonitor_. They have been with me since I was assigned to the Unknown Regions. Parck even longer."

"It seems like forever, Admiral." But Parck, like all her father's men, didn't sound as if that were a bad thing at all.

"Vice Admiral, Captain," said Pellaeon, who looked as if he were relieved at least some of Thrawn's associates were normal by Imperial standards. "A pleasure, gentlemen."

"I'm happy to finally meet you, even at distance, Captain Pellaeon," Parck said. "The Grand Admiral thinks quite highly of you." Pellaeon didn't quite blush, but he did stand a little straighter. "I hope this meeting indicates we'll be working together in the near future."

"Not immediately, but it does relate." Thrawn once again called up the display showing the Maw. "You received the information I transmitted, Vice Admiral?"

"Yes, sir, and I must say, even if there is no further value to this installation as a research station, four Destroyers are too useful to pass up." Parck's hologram studied the tactical display. "You wish the _Admonitor_ to lead the recovery effort?"

"I do. And I will be sending Mitth'ele'arana to assist you, discreetly, of course, if the installation's commander proves recalcitrant, or actively dangerous. The desired outcome is any remaining engineers and their projects will be removed and transferred to a secure location. Our construction yards at Ord Trasi should have sufficient resources to complete any manufacturing requirements. The Destroyers themselves will form a new battle group, with the _Admonitor_ as its flagship. "

There were hundreds of light-years between them, but Thelea could see Parck and Niriz both stand taller, and the appropriately-professional smiles were just shy of beaming. "So we're to come home at last, Grand Admiral?" Niriz sounded relieved, but also happier than Thelea could ever quite recall hearing, even when he'd realized who, precisely, had come to rescue them both on Azuke when they'd first met in person.

"If all goes well, this will be the beginning of the push to end the war of rebellion once and for all," Thrawn said. "It is only fitting that the _Admonitor_ be there when this phase ends and our real work begins."

"It hardly seems possible, sir," and Parck sounded almost wistful.

"I wish I could say it meant peace in our time, but it will, at least, mean a truly allied central galaxy at last." Thrawn was staring at the tactical readout, his expression almost dreamy. "And then . . . let the storm come. We will meet it, and we will break it. The enemy at our gates now, and any others who dare come after."

Thelea found her own spirits carried along much as she could see Parck, Niriz, and Pellaeon were. The notion of a galaxy safe and secure and united against not only the dark enemy, but anything else the Unknown Regions and beyond cared to throw at it, would have seemed like a dream indeed, had anyone else promised it. The Emperor had made a great deal of noise about crushing the Rebellion, after all. When she looked at Aleishia, though, she saw the hesitation. Not doubt, per se, but a strange reluctance, and then she heard the question:

 _And then what?_

Thelea blinked, and felt some of the euphoria fade. Of course merely retaking Imperial Center would be cause for men like Parck or Pellaeon to celebrate. That was, in most respects, _home_. Even if in many ways they knew her father was understating just how much work there would be left to do once the rebel government was gone–their military would need to be reorganized under Imperial authority, the frontier secured, and someone would need to begin searching in earnest for the homeworld of the dark ones. Her father had maximized the tactical display, and she looked at just how much was still considered Wild Space, and the Unknown Regions, though her father's maps rarely called it such any more. And almost against her will she looked at a blocked-off sector of that region. There was no lettering in Basic to say what it was, but she knew. The borders looked more expansive than she remembered, but it had been a long time since she'd been there. Perhaps after so long in the Empire, home had just shrunk in her memory.

She felt another set of eyes on her, and realized her father was looking at her. The human officers were speaking amongst themselves, clearly focused on the immediate prospect of going home. And Aleishia, too, she had been born on the planet she still called Coruscant, bad memories or no.

 _What about us, Father?_ Nirauan counted, in some ways, but it was a fortress. And she, and her father, were among but not of their own kind there. Could he ever really be among equals again? On Imperial Center, though, they would be truly alone, even with the coterie of his most loyal officers. She knew what the Rebels feared–another Emperor, a tyrant ruling for the sake of power. But somehow she couldn't imagine her father settling for an alien throne in the Core, surrounded by a court of politicians with no real puzzles to solve beyond who was backstabbing whom (not that he'd tolerate that for long!) What challenge was there in that? On the other hand, once the borders were secure, the dark ones beaten back or destroyed utterly . . . then what? Wait for more of the nightmares that lurked in the far reaches of the Unknown Regions? Go hunting them?

Her father looked to the map, and she followed his gaze, tracing the unfamiliar expanded boundaries of the Ascendancy. _Or will it be our turn, and all the other outcasts and deserters who've come to you, to go home?_ And would it make any difference for her? Her mother's family was not going to welcome her with open arms. The only place other than the fortress when her father was there that had halfway felt like home was when she'd had Giriad and Rurik, on the _Executor . . . ._

Thelea closed her eyes. Here, there, Nirauan . . . as long as she was too busy to ponder where she fit in all of this, no longer truly Chiss but never human, either, she would leave those questions to her father. The Grand Admiral had a plan. He always did. There had been no recurrence of the dreams, no more warnings from the Force. They had beaten back the Rebels' ambush, C'baoth was dead and any plans of his for conquest with him, the Emperor's storehouse had been destroyed but it had still yielded up a last treasure for them. The would-be assassin was dead, Thrawn was alive, and he would not make the same mistake again. If the Rebels weren't terrified of him before, they had to think he was supernaturally invincible now.

Thelea smiled to herself. The Force was with them. They were going to win.

 _It was dark and it was cold, and finally, after another of those eternities between dream and waking, she came to consciousness and realized she was alone. Not alone in a room or a building, or even within whatever kind of settlement this place was._

 _Alone on a planet._

 _The Others were gone._

 _Not just the kind one, the strong one, who had come and gone and finally gone and never come back. Since he-she-it-he had given her as much of his strength as could be spared to reach across incalculable distance, he had gone and never returned. She had been asleep again, or whatever state they kept her in, but some part of her mind had known he was gone and not returning._

 _Now they had all gone, and she had the terrifying sense they had forgotten she was there. Or had never especially_ cared _that she was there._

 _The facility had the odd sense of a beast sleeping, and as she stumbled through it she had the dizzy feeling something was examining her, nudging her along, as it was not hostile but it did not think she was the one meant to be here. There were signs as she wandered there had been others here, besides her hosts, beings similar to her with similar needs, but they were gone or in one case, she could see the figure in the crystalline chamber would not wake, even if she could have figured out the controls or the language they were in._

 _The gentle impetus that had kept her moving finally brought her to what she thought might have been a hangar. Like every other room in the complex there were no doors or magnetic fields she could see, and at first she didn't think there were any ships, either, only empty bays and strange, organically-curved structures a little larger than a clawcraft, but which looked to her eye like one-person pods._

 _One of them came alive._

 _That was the only word for it. The Force was strange here, muddled, not at all easy to access, but while the podcraft was not like the one she dimly-remembered bringing her here weeks . . . years . . . she could no longer guess how long she'd been here. That had been, like her exact location and the names of her rescuers, one of the things she had never fully understood. Nor how their ships, like the dark ones', had an energy like a living thing and 'spoke' to her hosts. This one did not speak, but she had a sense it knew her somehow, had been waiting, and as the side irised open she caught a familiar sense in the Force, the remnant of a familiar life energy–the kind one. He had thought of her, even if the others had not._

 _The inside was, like everything else, not meant for a simple biped, but the controls seemed largely on automatic. She still could not read the unfamiliar script, but like the chamber where they'd kept her, something in the half-alive technology soothed her, made her relax. If the starfield the strange display showed was unfamiliar, well . . . what would_ he _have told her to do? Prioritize. She was not hungry or thirsty, the ship seemed to have some preprogrammed notion of what to do as far as coordinates went. So now, she could rest, think, and try to reach out . . ._

 _No. That was worse. When the kind one of the Others had been there, she could stretch her mind that far despite the odd variance in the Force, there but different. Now, though, no matter how far she tried to reach, while she could feel life and minds, none were familiar. None felt right. None felt like home._

 _So. She did not need food. She did not need water. She was not in immediate danger that she could sense, and the quiet hum of the ship was soothing. She had no way to tell where it was going, or scan for life signs, so all she could do was rest. The ship's systems sang quietly in the back of her mind as they drifted, keeping her from noticing the passage of time, letting her think, for the first time she could remember since she'd fallen into this strange twilight existence, of finding a way home._


End file.
